


Dealing

by estepheia



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, Porn With Plot, Season/Series 06, Sex Magic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethan and Lindsey strike a deal. - Set during S6 of BtVS, shortly before "Seeing Red" and during S3 of AtS - Lindsey left W&H a year ago, Ethan got locked up by the Initiative more than two years ago… (written 2003-2005)</p>
<p>The pairing is a tough sell, but IMHO this is one of my best stories. A standalone version of the first chapter was nominated in the Candy Store Awards 2003 for Best Ethan and Best Short Fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Veils

# Part 1 – Veils

 **deal** , _n._  
a business transaction.

>   
> _I see a red door and I want it painted black_  
>  No colors anymore I want them to turn black  
>  (Paint it Black – The Rolling Stones)  
> 

* * *

The 1956 Ford pickup truck stood out like a sore thumb. Most of Rack's junkies didn't have a dollar to their name, let alone wheels, and the beauty outside was in pretty good nick - so what was it doing here?

The old sorcerer stepped through the veil and into the waiting room. There was no need to announce his presence; Rack had said to be there at ten and Rack got what he wanted. Actually, Ethan was five minutes early, and the fact that he was acting like a well-trained dog on a leash annoyed him.

He perched on the armrest of a hideous sofa that smelled like it had been salvaged from the city dump and let his gaze roam: a half dozen junkies, and in the middle of that human trash, eye candy. Scuffed cowboy boots, faded designer jeans, manly lumberjack shirt, expensive watch, soft, manicured hands; clean shaven handsome face, and a don't-fuck-with-me scowl. This had to be the owner of the truck outside.

Ethan was resentfully aware of his own shabby clothes: black cotton slacks from the thrift store and a ten dollar blue button down from Wal-Mart—all loose fitting, and testimony to the lousy hand fate had dealt him of late. He missed the sensuous touch of silk on his skin, not to mention the prestige that came with wearing Versace. It all boiled down to money. The young man had it. Ethan didn't.

Ever ready to act on a whim, Ethan abandoned his perch and sauntered towards the newbie. "Are you quite sure you're in the right place, son?" he asked amiably, slipping into a winning smile.

Angry eyes narrowed, mirroring first speculation, then thinly veiled contempt. "I can handle myself." It was a languid, self-assured brush-off, like a rattlesnake briefly flicking its tail.

Ethan's stomach tightened and a chill raced up his spine. Bollocks! He'd never met the guy before—Ethan never forgot a pretty face—but there had been a spark of recognition in the other man's gaze, no doubt about it; and in Ethan's line of business recognition could get you zapped with electric cattle prods, locked up, deported, or even killed.

"Oh, I'm sure you can," Ethan appeased him. His smile never wavered, even as he stifled the urge to bolt. "But if you ever—"

At that a door opened and Ethan recognized the Madison girl. She staggered into the waiting room, giggling - totally juiced up, her eyes completely black. Her auburn hair writhed serpent-like in the still air. Slightly disoriented, she peered around while one of the junkies hurried past her and into Rack's inner sanctum, slamming the door shut. The young witch laughed breathlessly, turned into a gray swirl, and then was gone.

"As I was saying," Ethan said, slowly backing off. "I'm sure you can handle yourself, son."

For some reason his words caused the young man to bristle. "I know who you are, Mr. Rayne," he said. "I've seen your file."

"Do tell. What file would that be? IRS or voter registration?" Ethan asked, but underneath the flippancy the need to know made his heart flutter: FBI, Council or Initiative? If Mr. Cowboy Boots here was part of the Initiative outfit, things would get messy. Ethan had no intention of ever getting caught again. Not alive, anyway. His thoughts turned to the double-edged switchblade in his coat pocket.

"I used to be with Wolfram & Hart," the young man said, and added: "My name is Lionel Morgan."

"Used to?" Ethan echoed, hiding his intense relief behind a facade of polite interest. Now, there was a twist. Rumor had it, the firm didn't like their employees to leave. Ever. If Morgan - and Ethan was fairly certain he was smelling an alias here - if Morgan was still around to tell the tale....

The young man probably fancied himself a good poker player, but Ethan was old enough to be his father, well, at least technically, and at least twice as cunning. "And now you're..." Ethan prompted, injecting just the right amount of skepticism into his voice.

Lionel flashed him a shark's grin. "Let's just say I'm my own man now."

It was all Ethan needed to know that a) the snotty little bastard had leverage on Wolfram & Hart and b) that there had to be an opportunity in here, somewhere.

Ethan hesitated. Aura reading was close enough to real magic to earn him a slap-on-the-wrist sized migraine from the behavior modification chip. But this could be the break he'd been waiting for, the sign that his fortunes were changing. He braced himself for the twinge of pain, then, when Morgan briefly turned his back on him to glance at the clock that hung on one of the walls, Ethan switched sights.

And saw… nothing. But then he detected a slight blurring effect. A cloaking spell, designed to avert a spell caster's gaze. Intriguing, but not really an obstacle for a determined warlock. Unless said warlock was chipped, of course. Ethan swallowed. He had no time to worm his way underneath the veil. With one determined thrust of his mind he pierced the veil. Pain flared up in his head, bright and sharp, as though someone were shoving long, searing hot needles through his eyes and into his brain. His control shattered almost at once, but not before Ethan had caught a glimpse of the lad's aura.

At first Ethan thought that something had gone wrong, because all he saw was a palette of reds. Crimson fury, ready to erupt, bright and hot; burgundy animosity; dark smoldering resentment. The reds almost obliterated the other colors, but there was also a substantial amount of yellow, tinged with flecks of brown – which dubbed the boy smart and prone to falsehood, fitting for a lawyer. The aura looked severed and frayed around the right wrist – unfortunately there was no time to determine the cause.

Ethan swayed on his feet. He could feel his stomach heave. A slow tickle was traveling down his nose, which probably meant he'd popped a vessel. Luckily, Rack had a restroom. Ethan staggered off, locked the door and leaned against the grubby mirror, thankful for the soothing sensation of the cool, smooth surface against his aching head.

He dug a small bottle out of his pocket and fumbled with the lid, then tipped the open container. Several white pills spilled into his unsteady palm. Some bounced off his hand, and landed in the sink to disappear down the drain. Ethan blindly swallowed the rest - half a dozen pills or so. They weren't very strong. Quantity had to make up for quality. He grimaced at the bitter taste and washed it down with tepid tap-water. The face that stared back at him when he finally raised his head to the mirror looked ashen. Blood was seeping from his nose. Since there were no tissues, Ethan used toilet paper to wipe it off.

The last thing Ethan had glimpsed, before the headache ripped his control to shreds, had been a tightly coiled purple swirl within that simmering sea of red: a core of walled-up innocence. Rack was going to love this.

Which was the perfect reason for an impromptu change of plans.

When Ethan returned to the waiting room, Morgan gave him a quizzical frown.

"Migraines," Ethan said, with a diffident shrug. "They come and go."

Some of the tension left Morgan's body. "Aren't you going to ask me what your file says about you?" he asked.

Ethan shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't. The pain went up a notch and purple spots danced in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision. "Never occurred to me," he said, rubbing his temples. "But I did mean to ask: that nice set of wheels outside, are they yours? I'm a bit of an aficionado myself. Care to show me?"

Morgan caught on at once. "Sure."

A moment later they stepped out the door and through the magical veil that hid Rack's lair.

"I don't know what you want from Rack," Ethan said without much ado, "but maybe I can help you. I can assure you, I'm much more pleasant to deal with."

Making deals seemed to be common territory for lawyer-boy. Predictably he launched into courtroom-mode. "You don't exactly have a reputation for being reliable, Mr. Rayne."

"I'd be disappointed if I did," Ethan injected a bit of truth into the negotiations. "But the people I usually deal with, well, they aren't exactly in a position to throw stones."

"You don't know anything about me, yet you're offering me your services? What makes you think I'm hiring?"

"People don't visit Rack for his personality."

Morgan digested this.

"Let me tell you how this works, son. Rack is a leech. He gets paid in raw power, takes it from here…." Ethan put his right hand on the other man's chest.

Lawyer-boy flinched and knocked his hand away.

The old mystic smiled, not in the least offended, and shoved both hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat. "Takes it, twists it, refines it. He'll shuck you and suck you like an oyster."

"And of course you wouldn't screw with me," Morgan bristled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"In the traditional way? In a heartbeat," Ethan said in a passing flash of mirth. But then his grin faltered as he remembered Rack's mental tendrils boring into his mind, ruthlessly rifling through his memories, stirring up buried fantasies, tasting, taking - arousing and sickening at the same time. Ethan tasted bile in his mouth. Something dug painfully into his palm. His fingers were clenched tight round the bottle of pills in his pocket. Ethan willed himself to relax. He even managed to force a smile on his lips. "Like Rack? Not my style. To tell the truth, I have other priorities."

The young lawyer gave him a speculative look. "Maybe you can help me. There's someone I need to find."

"What's her name?" Ethan smiled at Morgan's stare. "It's always about a woman."

"Her name is Darla. She's difficult to track. Never stays in one place for long. I consulted half a dozen soothsayers and witches, but most were charlatans. One even claimed she was pregnant." He scowled. "Once or twice I got close, missing her only by a few hours."

"Then maybe you should learn to cast the locator spell yourself," Ethan suggested, struck by inspiration. Even as the words left his mouth a plan unfolded in his head, slowly, gracefully, enticingly—like a Playboy centerfold that's held the right way.

"And you'd teach me?"

"Why not? I've had apprentices before. I'm a good teacher." Innuendo mingled with misdirection. It was the truth – in a fashion. By the time Ethan had dumped his wannabe apprentices they'd always picked up a useful trick or two, only they had little to do with magic.

"I have no intention of worshipping your god." Or sharing your bed. Even unspoken the message came across.

"Then don't. Do I look like a missionary to you?" Oh, this was going to be fun.

"And you'd do that, what, out of the kindness of your heart?"

"All I ask is that you help me with a certain spell - nothing fancy."

"What kind of spell?"

"Like I said, nothing fancy, but it takes two people to do it."

"That's all?" Morgan looked suspicious. Well, he was a bloody lawyer so he would be trained to look for the catch.

"That's all," Ethan lied and smiled.


	2. Wheels

# Part 2 – Wheels

**deal,** _n._  
An indefinite quantity, extent, or degree: a great deal of experience. 

_Fortune, good night, smile once more, turn thy wheel!  
(King Lear - William Shakespeare)_

_On a dark desert highway_  
 _Cool wind in my hair_  
 _Warm smell of colitas_  
 _Rising up through the air_  
 _Up ahead in the distance_  
 _I saw a shimmering light_  
 _My head grew heavy, and my sight grew dim_  
 _I had to stop for the night_  
 _(Hotel California – Eagles)_

* * *

For reasons he did not disclose, Rayne was eager to leave –-not just Rack's turf but Sunnydale as well. He directed Lindsey to a derelict building in the Harbor district, then got out of the car to pick up his stuff.

Lindsey waited in the truck, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel. The half-torn front page of a newspaper limped across the road like an ominous tumbleweed, propelled forward by an occasional gust of arid wind. The only part of the headline that Lindsey could make out were the letters EATH. Fortunately, Lindsey didn't believe in omens.

The house into which Rayne had disappeared looked like a haven for roaches. What was a chaos sorcerer of Rayne's caliber doing in such a rat-hole?

Off the cuff, he'd pegged Rayne a smarmy crook with a healthy sense of self-preservation - a weasel or stray cat with the ability to always land on his feet. Luckily, Lindsey had more to work with than first impressions, thanks to the sizeable dossier he'd compiled for Holland Manners a few years ago, when Wolfram & Hart considered recruiting the sorcerer for their own nefarious schemes.

For a weasel, Rayne was uncommonly dangerous. Most of the bodies in his wake were collateral damage, but in at least one case he'd killed with deliberate malice and a wicked sense of irony. The seventies; a Catholic priest he'd murdered by forcing the man to swallow a host laced with arsenic. A personal grudge? Or a 'my God is stronger than yours' pissing contest?

In any case, the old warlock would have fit right in at Wolfram & Hart - except for his well-documented preoccupation with things he considered 'fun.'

"Too mercurial," Holland had said about Rayne, decisively closing the file. "The man thinks with his dick. Keeping him in line would be more trouble than he's worth. We'll keep him in mind as a possible outside contractor."

There was a certain irony in the way priorities changed. Now that Lindsey was no longer one of Wolfram & Hart's well-trained and well-paid legal eagles, dealing with Rayne looked more appealing, especially given the choice between a hedonist and a reputed sadist like Rack. Also, after all the dead ends he'd run into during his search for Darla, Lindsey was ready to clutch at straws.

My apologies for taking so long," Rayne startled him, when he finally returned with a shabby duffel-bag and a cardboard box. "I ran into the landlord and had to settle my debts."

Maybe it was the sated smile, maybe the treacley sheen of the man's eyes, but there was about him an air of profound satisfaction. Rayne had clearly taken something, either drugs or another person's life. Lindsey decided he did not want to know. "I need some kind of guarantee that you won't—"

"What? Rob you blind? Turn you into a toad? Would I do that to my own apprentice?" Hand over his heart, Rayne graced him with an insouciant smile.

"In a heartbeat," Lindsey stated.

"My, my, you are a suspicious one," Rayne grinned, unfazed. "Come now, why would I want to turn you into something as ugly as a toad? Because let's face it…" Rayne gave Lindsey a languid once-over. "That would be a bleeding crime."

Lindsey had always known that his looks were a bankable asset. They had never failed him, whenever he'd gone out to pick up a willing body for the night. He'd charmed witnesses - male and female - and swayed juries with that face. Rayne's appraising stare shouldn't shock, disconcert or even affect him. Why then did his breath hitch just now? What was it about Rayne that got under Lindsey's skin?

"Where to?" he asked brusquely, once Rayne had climbed back into the car.

"There are a few things we need to acquire, like a scrying bowl, incense, candles..." Rayne told him. "So I'd say L.A.."

That was the last place Lindsey wanted to go. "No," he said. "Not L.A."

"San Francisco?"

Lindsey nodded. They left Sunnydale at 80 mph, crossing the city limits just before midnight.

"Good riddance," The sorcerer muttered, as they passed a buckshot peppered sign that read 'You Are Leaving Sunnydale'. Someone had taken a red spray-can to the sign, crossing out the 'dale' and replacing it with 'hell.' "This place never really agreed with me. I'm beginning to think it's not just a convergence of mystical energy but also of stunningly bad luck."

Lindsey had not seen much of the infamous town that perched on top of this Hellmouth, but he was willing to take Rayne's word for it.

They sped through the night listening to KRTY, until Johnny Cash started to sing about a man named Sue. Lindsey brusquely turned the radio off and they traveled on in silence. Because it was late and Lindsey preferred to drive during the day, they stopped at a motel just outside Los Alamos in order to catch a few hours of sleep.

Lindsey got out of his truck and contemplated the run-down place, the blue neon sign that read 'acancies' and the less than trustworthy neighborhood. The grimy motel clerk, a fatter version of Norman Bates who made Rayne look positively trustworthy by comparison, handed the room‘s key over with a speculative squint, muttering something about 'fucking faggots' under his breath. Lindsey had a feeling that the price for the room had just gone up. Normally he would have cut the guy down to size, but he was tired of being on the road, or maybe he was just tired. Period.

He wordlessly tossed the money on the counter, took the key and walked back to the car to collect his luggage: a Samsonite full of clothes and an Adidas bag that held toilet articles, a half-empty bottle of tequila, and a baseball bat. Lindsey was uncomfortably aware that he didn't own much more than the old sorcerer did. To his surprise, Rayne reached inside the truck and gave Lindsey's black guitar case an experimental rap that confirmed that it wasn't empty, then lifted it out of the car.

"Tempt not the wicked," Rayne explained mockingly, shifting his own luggage to accommodate the unwieldy case.

Lindsey locked the empty truck. "Why don't you do a hands-off spell? You are a sorcerer, right?"

"That would require spell ingredients I don't have," the older man answered smoothly. It sounded like a reasonable explanation, but Lindsey had a radar for unreliable witnesses. There was something the sorcerer wasn't telling him.

The room turned out to be a dump - a twin bed dump - to be precise. Not the kind of establishment Lindsey would normally have chosen, but still a far cry from the overcrowded derelict apartments in which he'd grown up. No AC, but at least the old-fashioned ceiling fan seemed to be in working condition, albeit uncommonly noisy.

"Are you good?" Rayne set the guitar case down on the bed Lindsey had chosen for himself.

"What? Oh, you mean the guitar? I know a few chords." Lindsey replied dismissively, hoping to deflect all further questions. His music was none of Rayne's business.

"Ever played in a band?"

"No, and not planning to either," Lindsey answered testily.

"Just curious," Rayne told him, backing off. "I used to play drums in my time. That was before the advent of abominations like drum machines or the Spice Girls."

Lindsey almost smiled at that. There had been a dozen photographs in Rayne's file, one of them a glossy black and white print of a band of five. An old publicity shot, of the kind used to advertise gigs, with the name of the band "Eye Gone Blind" clearly visible on the bass drum, and a red circle around one of the faces singling out a lean young man in torn jeans and a white vest: Rayne, showing off an arcane tattoo on his left forearm and flaunting enough attitude for two.

Even 30 years later, the similarity was still striking. In fact, the smirk in that picture was identical to the look Rayne was giving him right now: a mix of amusement and condescension - almost as if he read Lindsey's mind. With a stab of intellectual excitement the young lawyer realized that Rayne was trying to find out what was in his W&H file. Dealing with Rayne promised to be every bit as challenging as cross-examining a hostile witness.

The conversation died there and then. Feeling that paying for the room entitled him to use the bathroom first, Lindsey headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, when he stepped out of the bathroom, damp and dressed in nothing but a pair of clean boxers and the amulet of protection that hung from his neck on a leather band, the room was empty. No Rayne.

Anger flared up, until Lindsey spotted Rayne's unopened duffel bag on the other bed. His own locked suitcase sat next to his bed, exactly where Lindsey had left it. His gaze fell on the window. A dark silhouette stood out against the yellowed net curtains. Rayne stood outside, motionless except for the slow migration of his cigarette, blocking out most of the light that seeped in from the motel's parking lot.

Lindsey shrugged and climbed between the cool sheets. The last impressions he took with him before sleep dragged him under were the loud whir of the ceiling fan and the slightly distorted outline of Rayne's shadow on the wall in front of him.

* * *


	3. Wills

# Part 3 – Wills

 **deal** , _n._  
Games: The right or turn of a player to distribute the cards.

_There are three basic types, Mr. Pizer, the wills, the won'ts, and the can'ts. The wills accomplish everything, the won'ts oppose everything, and the can'ts won't try anything.  
(The Black Hole, 1979)_

_Horses in my dreams_  
Like waves, like the sea  
They pull out of here  
They pull, they are free  
(Horses In My Dreams - P J Harvey) 

* * *

Lindsey woke to the smell of nicotine and hot coffee and the distinct feeling of being watched. A sudden stab of panic chased away the disjointed remnants of a dream full of motion and sound. Heart thundering like a stampede, Lindsey scrambled into a sitting position and squinted into the morning brightness. Instinctively, his hand went to the amulet round his neck.

Less than two yards away, Rayne sat comfortably in an armchair, fully dressed, watching him impassively, a half-empty paper cup in one hand.

"You were dreaming," Rayne informed him and wriggled his fingers in an imitation of REM movement, then he suddenly snapped his fingers, startling Lindsey. "What about?"

Lindsey did not answer at once. Uncomfortably aware of his morning hard-on, he shifted and rearranged the covers. "Horses," he finally answered, wondering if there was any harm in telling the truth. "Broncos racing along a frozen beach, across ice and snow."

"Where were you? Running with them? Or just watching?"

A faint echo of sea shells crunching harshly underhoof, hot breath rattling in chilly morning air, warm bodies jostling against each other, damp mist rising from animal coats that are dark and shiny with sweat…. Lindsey shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I hope for your sake that the coffee is better than the tea," Rayne changed the subject, nodding at a second cup that sat on Lindsey's bedside drawer. Lindsey eyed the unexpected gift and its bearer with suspicion.

"You're lucky this isn't the Middle Ages," Rayne continued amiably. "In the olden days apprentices were supposed to get up before their masters, light the fire, make tea, empty the chamber pot."

"Well, that quaint little tradition ends right here," Lindsey snapped. He reached for his coffee and took a sip. On a scale from one to ten the coffee merited about a two, and only because it was hot and it looked remotely like coffee.

"Who says I'm a traditionalist?" Rayne mocked him. "Even my fondest enemies wouldn't dare call me that.

"Then spare me the nostalgia, Rayne."

The old sorcerer smiled, but a chill crept into both his gaze and his voice: "I believe it's time for your first lesson. Get up."

"And I believe I'll finish my coffee first," Lindsey told the other man and raised his cup, having long ago lost any inclination to obey orders unquestioningly.

A moment later the cup was knocked from his hand. Hot coffee splattered all over Lindsey's bare chest and the bed covers. Lindsey's cheek stung where Rayne's hand had hit him. An unexpected weight pressed him against the mattress, as Rayne straddled his hips. Strong fingers grabbed a handful of Lindsey's hair, yanking his head backwards against the pillow at a painful angle, while the other hand pinned his sensitive wrist onto the mattress.

"I think we need some rules here, son. What do you say?"

Lindsey squirmed and bucked, but Rayne was stronger than he looked, using his weight to his advantage, while Lindsey's legs were trapped beneath the covers. But the one thing that finally caused Lindsey to cease his struggles was the realization that whenever he moved, his hard-on was rubbing against Rayne's crotch.

Rayne's shark-like smirk was mere inches away from Lindsey's face. Close-up, his eyes gleamed like polished onyx. "Rule number one: When I say it's time for a lesson, you do exactly as I say. I say 'jump', you say 'how high'; never mind the cliché." As if to underline his words, Rayne rocked against him. At the deliberate friction Lindsey's heartbeat accelerated into an unexpected gallop. Rayne leaned even closer, close enough for his hot breath to whisper against Lindsey's cheek. "And only when I say 'lesson over' then you can act like the snotty little prick you are. Do I make myself clear?"

Lindsey glared at the old warlock, panting, both from exertion and pent-up fury. The pain from his maltreated scalp made his eyes sting. It was ironic; he'd spent years appeasing Holland Manners and the other top brass at Wolfram & Hart and charming clients way more arrogant and infuriating than Rayne. What was it about the old warlock that made Lindsey want to hit him? Why did backing down go against every fiber of Lindsey's being?

"Well?" Rayne asked, tightening his grip. He was also breathing faster, but unlike Lindsey, he was enjoying himself.

Seething with anger and trembling with the sudden adrenaline rush, Lindsey almost called the whole thing off. Who the hell did Rayne think he was? No one had the right to treat Lindsey like that, not Rayne, not Angel. No one. But his outrage was bridled by years of courtroom maneuvering.

Rayne was the best spellcaster Lindsey had come across in a long time. Most freelancers were charlatans or crooks. Rayne might be an asshole, but according to his file he knew his mojo. If Rayne couldn't find Darla, nobody could.

But the prospect of finding Darla paled next to the other opportunity Rayne represented: the sensitive files Lindsey had squirreled away wouldn't keep Wolfram & Hart off his back forever. Eventually the Senior Partners would try to retire him permanently. When that day came, Lindsey needed a new edge, and magic might just be that edge.

Lindsey would use the old sorcerer. Play along, learn, and learn to play him. And then, when he'd soaked up everything there was to learn from Rayne, then Lindsey would make the old man pay for today.

"How high?" Lindsey choked out between gritted teeth.

The warlock grinned. "Good boy." The pull on Lindsey's hair lessened but Rayne did not let go. "Rule number two: When it comes to magic, you never go behind my back. No experiments on your own, no nifty little enchantments with funny side-effects. In return, I will teach you to the best of my abilities. Understood?"

Lindsey nodded, hiding his resentment under an eager student’s face. "Understood."

"Also: No alias. Lionel is a pretty name, but we both know it's not your real name. Well?"

A pause. Then: "Lindsey."

"And?"

"McDonald."

"See? That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" Rayne let go, patted Lindsey's cheek almost affectionately, then pushed himself off. "Well then, Lindsey: time to rise and shine."

Successfully willing his hard-on to subside somewhat, Lindsey slowly climbed out of bed.

Ethan reached into the bathroom, threw him a towel and waved the empty ice bucket at him. "Get dressed," he said. "And then be a good chap and get us some ice, will you?"

Frowning, Lindsey toweled the coffee splotches off his chest, put on his pants, and a clean shirt, grabbed the bucket and walked outside. When he came back, Rayne had a bottle of cheap Bourbon in front of him and two empty glasses.

"I didn't hire you to get drunk," Lindsey snapped. If he played the eager student too soon, Rayne was bound to get suspicious.

"Sit." Rayne gave the second chair a shove with his foot.

Lindsey put the ice-bucket on the table with a little more force than necessary and sat.

"Now, put some water in here," Ethan indicated the right glass. "But don't touch the glass. Use your mind."

Lindsey frowned, glanced at the bathroom, at the two glasses before him. What was this? Some kind of riddle? Well, the answer was simple. He dipped his hand into the bucket, grabbed a handful of ice cubes and dropped them into the glass. If Rayne didn't like Lindsey's answer he could go fuck himself.

But Rayne chuckled and nodded. He unscrewed the cap, filled the empty glass with Bourbon and set the bottle down again.

"There are at least a dozen ways to fill the other glass," Ethan said, indicating the one with the ice. "A sorcerer could manipulate the air; rearrange the molecules inside the glass so they turn into Glenfiddich. Or use a teleportation spell to steal someone's drink, emptying his glass in the wink of an eye. Or summon a demon or elemental that'll do it for him. A priest could ask his deity to perform a miracle."

Lindsey nodded.

"This is the easiest - and least messy variant," Ethan told him as he picked up the bottle again to fill the second glass. "Costs a few bucks for the bottle and a bit of bio-chemical energy to make my muscles move. Manipulating molecules, on the other hand, is tricky. It requires great concentration and great amounts of power. And with so much power involved there's great potential for screw-ups. Get it wrong and your Glenfiddich will taste like piss, or turn to acid."

"What about teleportation spells?" Lindsey asked.

"Teleportation spells are slightly easier and also faster. You need good aim and good visualization skills. Summonings are easiest. You get someone else to do your work for you. All you have to do is find the right creature, force it under your control, and keep it from ripping you open and slurping up your entrails like spaghetti." Rayne grinned. "So, using magic to pour yourself a drink is daft, a waste of power. Speaking of power: all magic requires some kind of power, commitment or payment. Got that?"

"Yeah, everything comes with a price, yadda yadda. Get on with it." Lindsey said, then winced. Christ, he was beginning to sound like Lilah.


	4. Drive

# Part 4 – Drive

 **deal** , _v. intr._  
Slang. To cope.

_Hokus pokus, joker's ride, come take a spin on a carnie ride  
(Hokus Pokus – Insane Clown Posse)_

* * *

Two hours later, after an introduction to basic meditation techniques, Ethan and Lindsey were back on the road, heading for Highway 101. The scowl on Lindsey's face seemed to be a permanent fixture. The lad looked like he had a sour taste in his mouth and his driving was aggressive, bordering on suicidal.

Unfazed, Ethan rolled down his window and breathed in the fragrant air, enjoying the wind and sun on his skin. There was nothing like a few years in the slammer to heighten a man's appreciation of the simpler things in life. Not to mention the pain killers he'd taken a few hours ago.

This was wine country: supple, curvy hills covered in vine under a brilliant blue sky. There was something sensual about vineyards that never failed to make Ethan horny. Maybe it was the thought of satyrs prancing around with huge stiff pricks. Not many of the randy buggers had actually moved to the New World and those who had cloaked themselves in magic, but still….

When the landscape no longer held his interest, Ethan regarded his pupil. "You're a fast learner," he told him, judging it wise to humor the hand that fed him - at least a little.

"Hit me again and the deal is off," Lindsey groused.

Ethan didn't mind. "We'll see about that," he said smoothly and openly studied the other man's profile: the sharp dip of Lindsey's eyebrow, the sullen pout, the stubborn line of his neck. Even the hair was unruly, adding to the overall impression of obstinacy.

Lindsey stared directly ahead, as though the traffic required his full attention, but a faint, tell-tale blush crept over his face. Pretty. Ethan languidly pictured Lindsey in hand-cuffs and on his knees, flushed with anger, yet eager to suck him off. Even prettier. Ethan smiled, relishing the fantasy and the surge of arousal it sent down his spine.

Ethan waited for Lindsey to take his eyes off the road and glare at him before he turned away with a satisfied smirk. Oh yes, this was fun.

"Tell me about yourself," Ethan said about half an hour later, after storing the fantasy in the back of his head for a more private occasion.

"There's nothing to tell."

"Then tell me about the woman you're looking for. Darla. Why do you need to find her? Who is she? The woman of your dreams?"

"A vampire."

Interesting—and also disconcerting. Ethan's tolerance for vampires had taken a sharp nose-dive during his two years in Initiative custody. He stifled the urge to rub his scarred shoulder. "Someone you cared for?" Ethan affected an expression somewhere between polite interest and heart-felt sympathy.

Brakes screeched and then the pickup truck swerved off-road, giving Ethan a few bone-jarring jolts before skidding to a halt in a burst of dust and gravel. A huge sixteen-wheeler blew its horn as it roared past them.

Lindsey twisted in his seat to face him. Hands balled into fists, he was tense with anger, like a rattlesnake about to strike. "Look, Rayne, my private life is none of your business. You help me find her, and I'll help you with your spell. That's the deal. So unless you've got something useful to say, I'd appreciate it if you'd shut the fuck up."

So much anger. It rekindled something deep inside Ethan, something he'd believed buried and lost. 'Wouldn't mind a shag' suddenly gave way to 'must have.'

And something else happened. While Lindsey tried to restart the engine, furiously turning the ignition key again and again, Ethan was seized by a moment of clarity. Everything boiled down to just one thing: obsession.

Ethan knew an epiphany when he had one, and this one told him that lawyer-boy was on a wild goose chase. Both driven and adrift. Burning with ambition, but with neither aim nor cause. Lindsey might think he was searching for a person, but in truth all he was looking for was some semblance of purpose.

There was something utterly irresistible in that scenario. The chance for mischief and misdirection, the opportunity to tip the scales….

To Ethan it was also a sign that his god hadn't deserted him.


	5. Arrive

# Part 5 – Arrive

It was a six hour drive to San Francisco. Rayne slept through most of the trip, while Lindsey sat behind the steering wheel, simmering. What on earth had possessed him to get involved with the chaos sorcerer? Already the man was messing with him, turning Lindsey's life upside down with his mind games. Not that Lindsey's life wasn't fucked up already, thanks to Angel.

From the moment Mr. I-have-a-destiny had swaggered onto the scene like some strapping hero, kicking Mr. Winters out of the window to a fiery death, he had thrown a spanner into Lindsey's carefully laid out plans. Now Lindsey was a fugitive, a homeless bum, instead of an upwardly mobile vice-president of Wolfram & Hart and candidate for the Circle of the Black Thorn. And Angel? Right now the smug bastard with his arty farty business cards was probably sitting in his batcave hotel, doing his 'We help the helpless' routine, feeling good about himself for setting Lindsey on a path of redemption.

Well, screw redemption. Lindsey McDonald was a feather in nobody's cap. Not Angel's. Not Rayne's.

He glanced at the sleeping sorcerer.

Nothing in the man's features gave away his true calling. On the contrary, a million smiles had etched thin lines and wrinkles around Rayne's eyes and mouth that said 'harmless' and 'benign'. There were other lines, the kind that was caused by grief and pain, but they only added to the overall impression of kindness.

Lindsey snorted.

The sleeper stirred but did not wake. The flutter behind his eyelids indicated he was dreaming. An expression of misery tugged at his mouth, then deepened. "No!" Rayne shouted, then sat up with a start, breathing heavily, taking in his surroundings.

Lindsey raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Ten miles to San Francisco," he said, dividing his attention equally between traffic and sorcerer.

Rayne blinked and absentmindedly tugged at the cuffs of his button-down shirt. Under Lindsey's gaze, intelligence narrowed into calculation, humor hardened into cynicism. "And? Are you ready for the summer of love?" he asked.

"And? Are you ready to earn your keep?" Lindsey shot back.

For a second Rayne's smile thinned, but then it transmuted into a reckless grin. He rolled down his window and stuck his head into the breeze.

* * *

_If you're going to San Francisco_  
 _Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair_  
 _If you're going to San Francisco_  
 _You're gonna meet some gentle people there_  
 _(San Francisco – Scott McKenzie)_

* * *

Lindsey had been to San Francisco a few times, but he'd always arrived in a chauffeur-driven limousine or via company helicopter, and his time had been spent in client meetings and business lunches. He'd had neither the time nor the inclination for sightseeing.

Rayne on the other hand seemed to know the city well. He navigated them through rush hour traffic and a maze of one-way-streets without once resorting to reading a map.

They ended up in the heart of the city, in a narrow backstreet of Victorian houses that was characterized by a peculiar blend of old and new. Some of the buildings looked like they'd seen better days, others had been carefully renovated - which gave them a quaint, old-fashioned air. However, the people who populated the street looked almost obscenely modern.

"Liked the place best in the Seventies," Rayne said suddenly. "Almost as good as Amsterdam."

All Lindsey knew about the Seventies came from movies like Hair. He tried to picture Rayne in purple suede pants and Jesus sandals, with long hair and prayer beads dangling from his neck, and the peace sign painted on his bare chest, but somehow the image that came to mind was more glam than tofu, Ziggy Stardust rather than Age of Aquarius.

"This is it," Rayne finally said. He pointed at a gaudy looking second-hand store that sold vinyl records, biker fashion, and god knows what else.

Lindsey found a parking space and killed the engine. When Rayne got out of the truck, Lindsey tagged along, unwilling to let the duplicitous sorcerer out of his sight even for a minute.

A resinous, sweetish smell greeted them. The store smelled like an opium den. A thin wriggly wisp of smoke that curled up from an incense stick wobbled and frayed in the sudden draft.

Lindsey lingered near the door and pretended to browse through a box full of second-hand books, while Rayne approached the counter to talk to the pretty, gum-chewing girl behind it. He laid the charm on thick, shamelessly sizing her up, voice seductive and smooth. Lindsey listened with one ear, leafing through books on palmistry and tarot reading without really seeing them, while Rayne and the young woman went through the whole 'I like your accent – where do you come from' spiel.

When Rayne admired her tattoo, a barbed wire tribal that snaked around her belly and drew attention to her pierced bellybutton, she gave a coy, flirty laugh and pushed her short tank top up a few inches for a better view.

For God's sake, Rayne was more than old enough to be her father! Maybe even her grandfather! For some reason Lindsey was appalled by the direction this was taking. He stalked over to the record section and angrily leafed through a box filled with vintage Eric Clapton records. Flap, flap, flap. His attention remained focused on Rayne and the young woman.

"Is Walter still around?" Rayne finally came to the point. "I'd like to place an order."

The chick regarded him quizzically. "You a friend of his?"

"Oh, we go way back."

Her behavior changed subtly. The teasing went down a notch, and the chewing gum got stuck underneath the counter. She pushed a notepad and pen towards him. "Write down your name and what you want. I'll make sure he hears about it. Don't forget to leave your number."

Rayne scribbled something down, then tore off the paper, folded it twice and handed it over with a small bow and a practiced smile. "Thank you, my dear."

Without even glancing at it, she stuck it into her back pocket, then grabbed hold of Ethan's sleeve to write something on the back of his hand.

"There," she said, pleased with herself. "That way you can't lose it,"

Rayne read what she'd written. "Starshine?"

"Yup. Love, peace, dope," she said with a heavenward glance. "Mom still lives in the Seventies. Anyway, call me, 'kay?"

The sorcerer's grin broadened. With a casual wave over his shoulder and Lindsey on his heels, Rayne jauntily strode out of the shop, deftly swiping a deck of tarot cards in passing.

* * *

Ethan shoved the pack of cards into the pocket of his coat, savoring the minute adrenaline rush shoplifting always gave him, but relishing Lindsey's disapproving mien even more.

"Who is this Walter?" Lindsey demanded.

Ethan studied the name and phone number on the back of his hand. "Someone I owe," he answered almost distractedly.

"You owe him? What makes you think he'll help?"

"Do you know how Julius Caesar rose to power?"

"History lessons now?"

"Do you?" Ethan insisted.

"Of course I do. Plundered half of Europe to buy himself the emperor's crown." There was a pink flyer tucked under one of the windscreen wipers, a take-away menu or something. Lindsey snatched it up and crumpled it into a ball without another glance.

"That he did. But first he borrowed money - more than he could ever hope to pay back. Borrowed it from the most influential men in Rome."

Predictably, it took Lindsey less than a second to work it out. "Who then had to either cut their losses…"

"Or give him half of Europe to plunder." Ethan nodded. He picked up the crumpled flyer, smoothed it flat, and studied it with great interest. Thai food—nice. Two years of imprisonment had whetted all his appetites. He stuffed the flyer into his pocket.

Lindsey shoved his key into the ignition, but instead of starting the car he turned to regard Ethan thoughtfully. "What happens if this Walter decides to cut his losses?"

Good question. "Then we bugger off as fast as we can."

"Swell."

* * *

"You want us to stay here?" Lindsey asked incredulously, sizing up the old, run-down building before him. The sign said 'Rubywisp Hotel.' Lindsey stepped aside to make room for a pretty boy in black leather pants and his middle-aged trick, who were both in an obvious haste to get inside. "They charge by the hour."

"They also have wards in place." Rayne picked up his belongings and took the lead. Lindsey had little choice but to follow.

The reception was manned by a plump lady in her seventies, with henna-dyed hair, too much make-up and gaudy jewelry. At the sight of the sorcerer her face lit up. "Ethan!" She tossed her knitting into a little wicker basket and rose to greet him, tilting her head invitingly.

"Zelda, my dear." The old sorcerer leaned forward obligingly to kiss the offered cheek, before squeezing her hands, once more impressing Lindsey with his ability to radiate charisma at the flick of a switch. Lindsey prided himself on being able to read people, but he honestly couldn't tell if Rayne's effusiveness was genuine or not.

Zelda held the sorcerer at arm's length to give him a once over. "Where have you been, you old scoundrel? Look at you, you're much too thin." Her gaze shifted to Lindsey and turned into a frown. "Don't you feed him enough, kid?"

Lindsey scowled, willing Rayne to correct the woman's assumption, but the 'old scoundrel' did nothing of the sort. Instead he slung his arm around Lindsey's waist and pulled him closer.

"Zelda, I'd like you to meet Lionel. Lionel, this is Zelda, an old friend of mine."

"A friend of Ethan's is my friend also," she declared and pulled Lindsey into a hug. "Welcome to the Rubywisp Hotel, Lionel."

* * *

"This place is a dump," Lindsey stated, taking in the faded wall paper, the tacky erotic prints, the pink vase with the fake roses, and the single king-sized bed. He glanced at the ceiling and grimaced at the matching king-sized mirror.

Ethan grinned, dropped the room key on the bed, then dumped his box and bag right next to it. "Don't let Zelda hear you talk like that. This is her famous honeymoon suite."

Predictably, Lindsey bristled at that. "If you think I'll sleep—"

"How often do I have to say it? Your virtue's safe with me," Ethan interrupted, secretly pleased with Lindsey's one-track thinking. He grinned. "I like my partners to be active and willing, well mostly anyway."

"As for the room…." Ethan crouched and flipped over one of several worn rugs that covered the carpet at odd angles. On the underside of the rug there were more than a dozen black swirly symbols. With their sharp angles and soft curves they resembled tribal tattoos, but they were in fact protection runes, derived from the Enochian alphabet. Ethan brushed his palm over one of the runes and felt a slight prickle - like electric static. Good.

"Like I said: the place is warded." Ethan flipped the rug back into place. "I don't know about you, but I for one will sleep much better, knowing that we're temporarily off the radar, should anyone be looking for us."

Lindsey seemed to agree. Without another word, he set down his suitcase and leaned his guitar case against the wall before picking up the remote and turning on the TV. Sounds of moaning and panting immediately filled the room. The TV screen lit up to reveal a bottle-blonde woman with massive tits who knelt in front of two guys who were wearing football shoulder pads and not much else. Holding a cock in each hand, she was jerking one man off, while expertly fellating the other.

A huge prick disappearing inside a wet, welcoming mouth was always a sight to be appreciated, at least as far as Ethan was concerned. A sideways glance at his young apprentice told him that Lindsey seemed to feel the same.

"Fuck yeah," the owner of the enormous prick groaned, rocking his hips, "suck my dick. Suck it, suck it, yeah."

"Ah, the joys of cable porn. Poetic, isn't it?" Ethan said, breaking the spell.

"Too poetic for me." Lindsey began to flick through the channels, pushing the buttons with more force than necessary. A dozen hardcore tableaus later the fake football players came back on. Only now they were kissing, and fondling each other's nipples. Lindsey scowled, switched the TV off and tossed the remote on the bed. "How long do we have to stay here?"

"Depends. A week, maybe longer."

"Depends on what?"

"On how fast you learn," Ethan said. "Look at it this way. We're safe from detection and there's no charge. There's even free porn. I'll talk to Zelda. She'll feed us some more channels."

With sure, economic movements Ethan started to unpack. He lifted the electric kettle out of the cardboard box, placed it on the chest of drawers and plugged it in, set down two cheap mugs beside it, added teaspoons, a tin of English tea bags and a bag of sugar, then stepped back, pleased.

"Now all we need is some milk," he said, "and it's home."

* * *


	6. Doors

# Part 6 – Doors

 **deal** , v. tr.  
To sell: deal prescriptions; deal cocaine.

* * *

Milk? My ass! Lindsey did not believe even for a minute that Rayne's absence was caused by a desperate need to shop for groceries. The man was meeting people or making phone calls he didn't want Lindsey to overhear. Whatever. Lindsey knew exactly what to do with his unexpected alone-time.

Would the old sorcerer have put a protection spell on his possessions? After this morning's lecture on wasting magic on non-essential things, Lindsey was inclined to think the answer was no. He pulled Rayne's cardboard box towards him.

The topmost item was a Ziploc containing a shaving kit and other toilet articles. Cheap brands, everything pretty new, with similar price tags. All from the same drugstore somewhere in Nevada.

Another Ziploc contained a dozen or so pill bottles. Lindsey squinted at the labels. Uppers, downers, anti-depressants, various types of pain killers – enough to tranquilize a herd of elephants. Either Rayne was a sissy or those migraines were real killers. One bottle was unmarked. Inside there were a dozen blue, diamond-shaped pills. So, the old sorcerer had other problems on top of his headaches. All bark, no bite. Lindsey grinned.

Drawing materials were next: chalk in different colors, a few bottles of ink, half a dozen paint brushes. Lindsey dug deeper and unearthed two wooden pencil cases. He opened the first, expecting pens and pencils. Instead, three scalpels gleamed on a cushion of blue velvet, held in place by little rubber loops that normally held pens in place. The second case housed an old-fashioned syringe, and a thin rubber hose. The half empty bottle of JD's at the bottom of the box was a strangely assuring sight by comparison.

The box was almost empty now, except for a tube of Astroglide, an unopened pack of condoms, a few candles, and a few books of matches that, read in the right order, chronicled a journey from Nevada to Sunnydale.

Lindsey returned everything to the box, making sure it looked exactly the same way Rayne had left it, then started on the duffel bag.

Clothes: button down shirts, all long sleeved; black slacks, socks, boxers. Everything new. Everything cheap. The price tag was still attached to one of the shirts. A heavy object was wrapped in a towel cushioned by underwear. Lindsey took it out, and although its weight already told him what to expect, he peeled back the flaps of the towel, exposing the gleaming metal of a Colt .38 Police Special. Almost in spite of himself, Lindsey inhaled the familiar smell of gun-oil. There was no holster, but for a second he thought he smelled leather and Old Spice aftershave - a stray, unwelcome memory that made him frown.

Careful not to get his prints on the weapon, Lindsey checked the chambers. The revolver was fully loaded. He re-wrapped it, re-filled the bag, and zipped the bag shut, then sat down on the bed, thinking.

What did a sorcerer like Rayne want with a gun? Where were the grimoires, spell ingredients, herbs and crystals? Why was everything the man owned in the same almost-new condition? Why did it look like the man's trail began in Nevada? With no sign of a history older than a few weeks?

The room was silent, except for the oppressive hum of the AC unit.

If Lindsey hadn't read Rayne's file he'd be convinced by now that the man was an embezzler or impostor. A spell-caster of Rayne's abilities would never live out of a duffel bag. He'd have more style. And if for some reason he ran out of money, he'd snap his fingers, and win half a million bucks at the blackjack or roulette table.

Nevada, huh? Maybe Rayne had gone to Vegas to play the casinos and stepped on the Syndicate's toes? It would explain the man's desire to stay underneath the radar. The Syndicate were an unpleasant bunch, even by W & H standards.

Lindsey glanced at the door. Rayne was taking his time. What if the man was on the phone right now, talking to Lilah, or maybe to Linwood, that smarmy asshole, trying to ingratiate himself with the firm by betraying Lindsey's whereabouts? If Lindsey were in Rayne's shoes, he wouldn't think twice about using his new 'apprentice' as a bargaining chip. The key to moving upwards in the world was the ability to recognize a window of opportunity and to open it.

He turned the possibility over in his head: If W & H had recovered the files he'd stolen for leverage, they'd make the deal with Rayne, and Lindsey's life would be forfeit. They would make an example of him. Something nasty and painful to keep the foot soldiers in line, like chaining him up in one of the firm's dungeons, and having a vulture pick at his liver. Or boxing him up in their massive basement, sentient, alive, never dying – one more of the living dead at Wolfram and Hart’s basement. He'd read the fine print. One didn't just leave -- or fight – the firm. W & H were impossible to beat. The only way to be safe was to be top dog, the leader of the pack, answerable only to the Senior Partners. And that goal was more out of reach than ever, thanks to Angel and his fucking interference.

The thing was: Lindsey didn't care anymore. It was bound to happen anyway. Today. Next week. In two years’ time. Whenever. The files had bought him time. Nothing more. If they came for him, he'd go down fighting. If they didn't, well, he'd keep his eyes open for a window of opportunity.

Feeling both keyed up and boxed in, Lindsey picked up the remote. When the screen lit up the football jocks were gone, but there was another threesome going on. Two guys were roughly pounding into a tiny Asian woman, grunting and moaning and slapping her ass.

Lindsey watched for a few minutes, almost impassively, thumb hovering over the remote button. He'd stayed in too many seedy motel rooms with cable porn, worked in too many sleazy strip joints over the past year, clearing tables or pouring drinks, to be easily turned on. It wasn't that he was jaded, more a case of leaning towards class. At least he liked to think so.

The joyless, mechanical fucking wasn't classy by any stretch of the imagination. Yet something about the fake aggression on the screen resonated with him, enough to keep his thumb off the remote switch. It didn't quite kindle anything inside him, but thanks to Rayne's unorthodox wake-up call this morning, it came dangerously close to touching a few bare wires. Close enough to cause a few sparks. Close enough to slowly get him into the mood.…

A loud rap on the door gave him a start. Lindsey leapt to his feet and snatched up his baseball bat. His gaze darted to Rayne's bag. Maybe he should get the gun?

"Lionel? Open the door, kid."

Even muffled by the door, the voice was unmistakable. Lindsey turned off the TV, leaned the baseball bat against the wall and opened the door.

"What took you so long?" Zelda wheezed impatiently, barging inside. "Here, take this." She shoved an unwieldy cardboard box into his arms. It was unexpectedly heavy. Lindsey almost dropped it. "Ethan said you'd be needing these," Zelda said, adjusting first her hair then her bracelets. "Christ, I shouldn't have lifted this on my own."

"Thanks," Lindsey said, regarding the box dubiously.

"There are more. Don't just stand there. Do I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger to you? Listen, kid: If I wanted to make a living hauling people's stuff around, I'd have asked to be born a man. Come on."

Lindsey put the box down and followed Zelda down the corridor, past the fire exit, to an open closet. Two housekeeping carts full of toilet paper and towels had been parked outside it, allowing access to a stack of boxes marked E.R. that lined the back wall.

"There you go, kid," Zelda said and stood back, arms folded. "Ethan said you two will be staying for a few weeks, so you might as well take the whole lot."

"What's in it?" Lindsey asked.

"My, you're really not one of the brightest are you? Either that, or too much screwing melted your brain. They're books, of course." Zelda chewed her lower lip in thought. "At least that's what the old rogue said when he dumped his crap in my lap. Anyway, I better get back to my desk. Put the carts back in the closet when you're done, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply, Zelda marched down the corridor towards the elevators. Before rounding the corner she called over her shoulder: "Call reception, if you need anything."

* * *

As it turned out, Ethan's milk-run took longer than anticipated.

Buying milk and instant coffee took only a few minutes. There was a small grocery store just round the corner. Five years ago it had been run by a Korean family; this time Ethan was served by a Sikh gentleman and the store's inventory had a welcome Commonwealth slant. In a bout of homesickness, Ethan added a packet of Jaffa cakes to his purchases and actually paid for them.

Tapping into his old sources took much longer. Over the past few years, people had moved away or disappeared. Some were dead, taking the favors Ethan had hoped to collect into their graves with them. Without the chip he could have made sure they paid what they owed, dead or no, but not in his current, crippled state.

After almost an hour on the phone, Ethan finally managed to track down one of his old contacts, who brought him up to speed on local affairs and promised to keep his ears to the ground, all four of them. If operatives from Wolfram & Hart or from the Initiative set foot into town, Ethan now had a chance to hear about it before they broke down his door. Things were definitely looking up. Ethan hung up, scooped up his remaining change and left the phone booth.

He crossed the hotel lobby, walked into the men's restroom, unlocked the hindmost stall by pressing a hidden switch, stepped inside, pulled the old-fashioned chain as if to flush, and walked forward—into and through the wall. The illusion rippled and a second later Ethan was surrounded by subdued Eighties' music, voices, and cigarette smoke.

It wasn't a large bar, or a particularly stylish one. Shabby Irish pub furniture competed with red bordello chintz and horrendous Fifties' lamps, but Ethan knew it to be well-stocked and well-run. Right now there were hardly any customers, which suited Ethan just fine. But he knew from experience that the place would liven up in a few hours.

"Hello Bruno," he said, as he slid onto a leather-upholstered bar stool and dug into the complimentary peanuts bowl.

"Mr. Rayne," the chaos demon greeted him with a respectful nod, and put a napkin down in front of him. "So you're back."

"Sort of," Ethan said vaguely. "Let's not make this front page news, shall we?"

"If anyone asks— I never even heard of you, sir. The usual?"

Ethan nodded.

When the drink arrived, Ethan took a sip and closed his eyes. Single malt Scotch, straight. Twelve years old. Mellow and smooth on the naked tongue like warm velvet. Perfect. "Put it on my tab," he said.

The chaos demon shook his head slightly. With a 'splat' a blob of slime landed on the counter. "This one's on the house," Bruno said, dug a cloth out of his bottle-green apron and wiped the counter.

Oh yes, things were definitely looking up.

He should have gone to San Francisco right away, after giving the Initiative the slip, Ethan pondered, and not gone back to Sunnydale to find Rupert. Especially since Rupert had been gone anyway. But the quarter Ethan had flipped had said 'Sunnydale' and Ethan always went where random chance sent him.

Oh well, whenever one door closed, another one opened. The door to Rupert was slammed shut now, locked and barred up. Impregnable. Two years at the mercy of Initiative scientists, doctors, and soldiers had seen to that. 'Here's to you, Ripper,' Ethan mentally toasted his old lover. "Rot. In. Hell."

Bruno gave him a strange look and Ethan realized he'd spoken the words out loud. "Not you, my friend," He said hurriedly, pasting on a fake smile. "Not you."

His drink seemed to have lost its flavor but Ethan finished it anyway. He waved Bruno goodbye, then headed back to the honeymoon suite to teach his recalcitrant new apprentice a thing or two.

* * *

"...forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us." Matthew 6, 12

* * *

Books, books, books. Zelda had been right about the content of the boxes. Lindsey had checked three so far, and they all contained books. He was just going through a stack of ratty paperbacks, when the door opened.

"Has no-one ever taught you to keep your hands off a spellcaster's property?" Rayne said.

"Donna Leon, Anne Rice, Grisham… This has got to be the most pathetic book collection I ever saw," Lindsey said, gingerly holding a dog-eared copy of The Firm between thumb and index finger. With an exaggerated shudder, he let go. The book landed on the floor facedown, in an untidy sprawl.

"Don't you know that books are doorways to other worlds?" Rayne said mockingly.

He stepped over the boxes and stacks of books to turn on the kettle, then picked up a random book and tossed it towards Lindsey, who caught it neatly. "Hold it upside down, and start at the back."

"Pet Sematary?" Lindsey raised a skeptical eyebrow, but did as he was told. Rayne hadn't said anything about this being a new lesson, but he'd used his teacher voice. As Lindsey turned the pages, the book seemed to grow heavier, and the letters blurred, then turned into different symbols entirely.

"Elmer van Holsten's Annotated Guide to Familiars," Rayne said, looking smug, "sprinkled with a little spell of mine. I don't like to sound my own trumpet, but I think it came out rather nicely, don't you think?"

"Yeah, don't forget to apply for the patent," Lindsey sneered almost absent-mindedly, while scanning the pages. The book was written in stilted, old-fashioned English, but no more difficult to memorize than his average legal text.

"You're right, though; most of the books are pathetic," Rayne went on, unfazed. "Stuff for beginners, otherwise I wouldn't have boxed them up. Tea or coffee?"

"Hm?" Lindsey looked up from the page he was reading.

"Tea or coffee?" Rayne repeated.

"Coffee," Lindsay answered, before remembering his decision to never accept a drink from the wily sorcerer. "Black."

Rayne nodded, popped the aroma seal and spooned coffee grinds into one of the mugs, then fixed himself a mug of tea with milk and sugar.

"Here you go, son," Rayne said, as he handed Lindsey his steaming mug.

Lindsey made no move to take it. "Don't call me that," he snapped.

"What?"

"You're not my father. I'm not your son. So, don't call me that."

"My, my, we are touchy today," Rayne's eyes shone with mirth and curiosity, and the alert, almost eager way he raised his head gave him the appearance of a bloodhound catching a whiff of something tasty. It made Lindsey regret ever having said anything. Now Rayne would start poking around and asking questions. Better to get the whole topic off the agenda soon. As in: now.

"We're not on speaking terms." Lindsey said with a well-rehearsed courtroom shrug that translated into a genuine-looking 'there's nothing more to tell'.

"Why not?" Rayne asked. He set down Lindsey's mug on the bedside table.

Because for two people to be on speaking terms it helped if both of them were alive? Two nights before Lindsey's graduation from high school, Officer Patrick McDonald had taken six .38 caliber bullets in the chest while investigating a burglary on his beat. The killer had never been found—at least not by the police. But this was none of Rayne's business. If the old sorcerer thought he could play Hannibal Lecter and crawl into Lindsey's head, he had another thing coming.

"Because I make five times more money than he does. Better pension plan and dental plan, too," Lindsey lied, without batting an eyelid.

* * *

Ethan regarded his pupil. A big fat lie served with a straight face was like a door slammed in one's face, or a combination lock on a desk drawer. Both were supposed to say 'leave me alone' but sounded like 'this is where the goodies are' – at least to Ethan's ears.

His palms itched with the impulse to deftly pluck thoughts and images from behind those angry eyes, to gather them and reel them up like threads of wool, unraveling the lad's lies to slowly lay him bare. Nothing as fancy as a proper spell, mind you, no thorough rifling through Lindsey's memories; just a little peek, or maybe a nudge, to make him open up a little… easy as pie, as natural as breathing. A tingle tiptoed up Ethan's spine and his fingers twitched.

White screeching heat lashed out at him. The full mug slipped out of his fingers unheeded, as Ethan's entire body spasmed. For a frightening moment Ethan couldn't breathe. His hands flew to his temples. Eyes squeezed shut, palms pressed against his skull, Ethan tried to fend off the blinding pain, swaying on his feet. His ability to breathe came back to him in short, frantic bursts.

"What is it?" Lindsey asked, and added mockingly: "No wait, let me guess: There's a great disturbance in the Force, Luke."

Just a warning shot, a cruel reminder of Ethan's current impotence that made his hands shake and his eyes burn with helpless rage. But not an average slap-on-the-wrist sized warning shot, but a king-sized, extra large, double shot, do-you-want-fries-with-that shocker. Or maybe it had just felt worse than usual, because it was less than 24 hours since his last zap-in-the-head.

"You okay?" He heard Lindsey ask.

A vicious migraine was setting up camp inside Ethan's head, so intense, he wanted to rub his eyes with his palms until his eyeballs popped, just to chase the excruciating pain from of his skull. His flesh and bones were tingling with power, Itching as though a colony of ants was scuttling around underneath the skin, bent on escape. He was brimming with magic. The well was full; he just couldn't fucking tap into it. And there was no Rack to siphon off the excess magic. Ethan shook his head. No, he was not okay. Far from it.

"Migraine," he choked out, trying to slow down his breathing.

"You should see a doctor," Lindsey said with a frown.

Ethan took a few unsteady steps towards the bed and sank down on it. "Don't like doctors," he forced out between clenched teeth.

"What if it's some kind of tumor?"

Ethan shrugged. He could feel Lindsey's gaze resting on him but didn't look up. Instead, he massaged his temples with his thumbs.

After a few seconds Lindsey could be heard moving about the room, then something nudged Ethan's shoulder: A glass of water, followed by a bottle of painkillers - his own - from the look of it.

While Ethan swallowed his pills, Lindsey picked up the shards of the mug and silently cleared up the mess the spilt tea had made. Ethan hadn't even felt the burn of the hot tea on his skin; now he became aware of the wet stains on his shirt and trouser legs. Bugger.

It took him several heartbeats to muster the energy to get up and pretend he was fine – or at least all right. As he wandered off to draw himself a bath, he tried to remember if there was anything in those cardboard boxes that he didn't want Lindsey to find, dangerous grimoires, dark idols or embarrassing personal items maybe. Probably not, and if there were, he couldn't bring himself to care. He picked up a handful of books. "Hope you're a fast reader," he said and dumped the stack on Lindsey's bedside table. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Potter."

As he climbed into the bordello-red Jacuzzi to immerse himself in water that was almost too hot to bear, Ethan felt a hundred years old. A mirror hung from the ceiling, matching the one over the bed, but to Ethan's profound relief it was too steamed up to show his reflection. Ethan had no desire to inventory the million ways in which he'd aged over the past few years.

His eyelids grew heavy and his thoughts became sluggish and fractured. Lulled into a daze by heat, humidity and too many painkillers, Ethan drifted off into a restless, haunted slumber, dreaming of blindingly white walls trapping him, crushing and grinding him to powder like a dried clove caught between pestle and mortar.

He woke in almost cold water, thrashing and panting with dread. Fortunately, he found himself not in a standardized white hotel bathroom but in a pink and burgundy blasphemy, utterly tasteless but comforting in its garishness. Shivering, he climbed out and toweled himself dry.

When he came out of the bathroom, Lindsey was gone, but there was a note on the bed. 'Food run' was all it said. Ethan slipped between the sheets and fell asleep.

He stirred a few times: once when the door opened and a smell of frying fat and sweet and sour sauce wafted into the room. Later, he woke again. The room was dark and quiet, except for the sound of even breathing. The dip of the mattress told him there was another body lying less than an arm's length away.

A stray image drifted through Ethan's sleepy mind: Lying back-to-back, both facing away from each other, one young, one old, they had to look like a living representation of Janus.

He smiled, and this time, when he fell asleep, he dreamt of an infinite number of doors opening in front of him.

* * *


	7. Rise

# Part 7 – Rise

_How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! (Isaiah 14:12)_

* * *

Normally, when Lindsey woke up in a strange bed, with someone he barely knew or remembered lying next to him, he slipped out from under the sheets into his pants and out through the door. This time, he sat up and glowered at the sorcerer in his bed; his mind cold and sharp like a razor, he contemplated payback for yesterday morning's embarrassment.

Rayne wore boxers and a plain white T-shirt in bed. The arms that hugged the bedcovers like a life-line were thin and sinewy, covered in scars and tattoos: knife cuts, bite marks, and, looking almost like freckles, numerous puncture dots left by injection needles.

The bite marks looked like vampire bites. There were those who craved the bite. Suck-Johns they were called; men and women who got off on the thrill of feeding a demonic creature. Was Rayne one of them?

Absentmindedly, Lindsey rubbed the thin scar around his right wrist. A body was like a diary, nobody knew that more than him. No, actually, not a diary, because not all entries were self-inflicted. Although this one probably was: the crude tattoo on Rayne's bicep of a black and white snake that bit its own tail - Ouroboros, its chthonic half faded to blue. The second tattoo, on Rayne's forearm, was more recent, its ink still black. It sat just above the wrist, a broad band of black stripes, some thick, some thin. Who'd tattoo a barcode on a man's arm? Small wonder Rayne wore long sleeves.

The old sorcerer might not be broken in body or mind, but he was certainly bruised and battered. More likely to cave under the right kind of pressure. Good. One of the things law school had taught Lindsey was never to give quarter. Find the cracks, drive in the wedge, and then – bang! – deliver the killing blow.

Rayne thought he was calling the shots? It was only a matter of time until Lindsey found the right buttons to push. With the state Rayne was in, what would he be susceptible to? Sex? Kindness? Sometimes a dose of TLC was all it took.

"I suppose breakfast in bed's not an option, is it?" Rayne said and turned around.

"There's some chow mein left." Lindsey pointed at the tidy row of take away containers on the table. He climbed out of bed, stretching and rubbing his neck, aware that Rayne was watching him. He needed a haircut, Lindsey thought, as he ran his hands through his unruly hair. Or he would, if he still had to appear in courtrooms and board meetings. He also needed a proper workout. When he'd severed ties with Wolfram & Hart, he'd not just left behind a penthouse apartment and a season ticket for the Lakers, but also a membership in L.A.'s most prestigious gym. He missed pushing his body to its limits.

Lindsey cast a sideways glance at the sorcerer, expecting a lewd, lazy smile, but meeting only an inscrutable mask.

"Let's try something," Rayne said, and patted the bed beside him.

Lindsey frowned. He did not move.

"Sit." There was an exasperated note in the sorcerer's voice.

Lindsey didn't quite sit; instead he perched on the edge of the mattress, trying to look nonchalant.

Rayne pointed at the stack of paperbacks that sat on Lindsey's bedside table. "How far did you get with your reading last night?"

Given the choice between porn and magic, Lindsey had opted for doing his homework. He wasn't sure if that made him conscientious or a wuss. "Almost done with this one." Lindsey handed the book over.

"Levitation?"

Lindsey shrugged. "Sounded useful." Lindsey had been uncertain whether Rayne wanted him to read the books in any particular order, so he'd started at the top of the pile, but he refrained from saying so.

"It is," Rayne said, and his smile snapped back like a boomerang. "And? Did your pencil float?" The innuendo hung in the air like sweet, sticky incense.

Lindsey folded his arms in front of his chest. "Not an inch."

Ethan nodded and waved his hand at Lindsey's chest. "Take it off," he said.

Lindsey hesitated, but then he started to unbutton his shirt.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, son, but I meant the amulet, not the shirt," Rayne said with an insouciant smile.

Lindsey curbed the impulse to strangle the wily old sorcerer. "Why?"

"What did you say? Did I just hear you say 'how high'?"

Lindsey glowered, but he reached inside his shirt, took off the amulet, and held it out to the sorcerer.

"Just put it on the table. And now I want to see you levitate something. Something phallic would be nice. Got a pen?"

* * *

"You float that pencil and breakfast's on me." Ethan said. "Come on; this is child's play. A six-year old could do it."

Lindsey's brow creased and a vein stood out on his forehead, as he tried harder. They sat opposite each other on the unmade bed, legs crossed, arms and hands resting on their thighs, with the pencil lying between them.

Ethan's eyes weren't on the pencil; he was watching his pupil, amused by the way Lindsey's eyes shone with slow-burning fury. Pretty. Almost reluctantly, Ethan switched sights to study Lindsey's aura, now that his Sight was no longer hampered by the amulet's protective veil. The reds were less intense this time, the yellows more vibrant. There was also a clear blue streak of growing spiritual awareness. Already the path Lindsey had chosen showed up in his aura.

For someone who'd never worked magic before, Lindsey's control and focus were impressive. He got through the mental exercises and the words of the spell without a single mistake, his determination honed to scalpel sharpness.

Ethan had always enjoyed going to the races. He had something of an eye for horses. He could always tell the also-rans from the fighters. Thick-headed and hot-tempered like a thoroughbred stallion, Lindsey was obviously one of the latter – his ambition to always come in first overpowering all self-doubt or sense of self-preservation. Too proud to admit defeat.

Lindsey's aura started to crackle and light up with red-hot sparks of frustration, and still the pencil refused to budge even an inch.

Bugger.

Ethan leaned forward, and started to slowly unbutton Lindsey's shirt. "Keep going," he said softly. "You're doing fine."

Lindsey tensed even more, if that was at all possible; still he stubbornly kept his eyes on the pencil.

"Don't worry; I promise I won't corrupt you," Ethan lied easily. "I'll just give you a little leg-up, so to speak." He pushed the shirt open, laying Lindsey's chest and shoulders bare, and paused for a second to admire the muscular, well-trained torso before him. With the eyes of a connoisseur, Ethan took in the smooth, well-waxed chest with its perfect pink nipples, and the strong biceps. Oh yes. Very nice. His body responded with unexpected alacrity.

Not entirely sure if the chip would object or not, Ethan slowly raised his hand and brought it to Lindsey's chest. As their skin touched, he gasped. His eyes closed with the familiar sense of relief and ecstasy as the magical circuit completed and a pulse of power that resembled the jolt from a low-voltage fence passed through his fingers and palm. With a deep, shuddering intake of breath, Lindsey arched towards him, intensifying the contact. Ethan did not need to look at his hand to know it was glowing.

The chip stayed silent, even when Ethan began to spill his power into his apprentice, careful not to give away too much about himself in the process. Pouring oneself into another person was a lot like letting one's pants down, something Ethan enjoyed more in the literal than in the metaphorical sense. Lindsey shouldn't pick up much – a few stray snapshots perhaps, moods, sounds or flavors, maybe traces of Rack or Ripper.

The link was nowhere near strong enough to give Ethan a chance to rifle through Lindsey's mind, but a few images got caught in the current and bobbed in the swell like pieces of flotsam, and Ethan eagerly snatched them up: a beautiful but sad blonde woman; a well-oiled gun in a leather holster; an arm ending in a bloody stump; a strong, Byronic-looking man with his hand around Ethan's/Lindsey's throat; and finally a tall man in uniform – with a black and white photograph where his face should have been.

"Do you feel it?" Ethan asked. "The power?"

Lindsey nodded. His pupils were dilated and his breathing was ragged. Ethan could feel the man's heart hammer beneath his hand. Swirls of slate-gray smoke gathered in Lindsey's eyes like storm clouds piling up before a thunderstorm.

"Concentrate on the pencil," Ethan murmured, riveted by the sight. "Feel its length, wrap that power around it, gently… like you'd touch…. something fragile. Yes, and now… make it float."

When Lindsey gathered the currents of power and threw them at the pencil, it didn't just float, it rose into the air like a model helicopter taking flight. Lindsey's unalloyed elation at a task well done surged over them both, traveling back and forth through the link like a hot wave. Ethan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. But this was the moment he'd been waiting for, the one he'd been working towards. This was not the time for second thoughts.

Ethan smiled his most benign smile. Like an assassin dripping his syrupy poison down a hanging thread onto the lips of his sleeping mark, Ethan sent a clandestine trickle of arousal through the magical link, only to discover that Lindsey was already half-hard. He hid his smirk behind a mask of concentration. This was almost too easy.

"You're doing great, son," he said teasingly. He was unprepared for the nervous flutter beneath his palm. The pencil wobbled for a second, and there was a strange ripple in the outer fringes of the lad's aura, where the long-term memories were stored.

Ethan blinked, but quickly regained his composure. "Your control is impressive for a beginner," he said truthfully. "Now make it stand up."

Obediently, the pencil stood up.

"Yeah, that's it. Good."

Their eyes met.

"What else can you do?" Ethan asked, continuing to pour power through the link, while subtly fanning the glowing embers of Lindsey's arousal. His own body echoed Lindsey's want, or maybe Lindsey's echoed his? "Come on, son, show me." Another tell-tale tremor traveled through Lindsey's body, barely noticeable if it weren't for Ethan's hand on Lindsey's chest. It wasn't anger but something much more interesting.

This power transfer was light-years from Rack's repulsive harvesting 'sessions'. Lindsey was like a sponge, eagerly soaking up Ethan's power and using it to make the pencil spin and dance and flit around like a firefly. Ethan hadn't felt this kind of rapport in a very long time.

"All right, enough," Ethan finally said. He withdrew his hand, reluctantly breaking the connection. The pencil wobbled in the air, then plummeted. Ethan caught it neatly in his hand.

Lindsey was panting with exertion. His skin was flushed. A visible bulge in his jeans gave his arousal away, but he was grinning. "I did it," he said almost incredulously.

"You did indeed," Ethan responded with a grin of his own, feeling a stab of something almost akin to affection for the young man. Ethan remembered only too well the elation he'd felt the first time he had made a pencil float. He'd been six at the time, but there was no need to tell Lindsey, was there? "Hungry?"

"Ravenous," Lindsey smiled and added with a hint of malice: "You owe me breakfast."

" I do indeed. Let's go." Ethan nodded at Lindsey's discomfort. "Oh, and I wouldn't get rid of that," he said matter-of-factly. "You might need it later."

* * *

_I’m a winner, I’m a sinner_  
Do you want my autograph  
I’m a loser, what a joker  
I’m playing my jokes upon you  
While there’s nothing better to do  
(Breakfast in America – Supertramp)

_Even when the darkest clouds are in the sky_  
You mustn't sigh and you mustn't cry  
Spread a little entropy as you go by,  
Please try.  
What's the use of worrying and feeling blue  
When days are long keep on smiling through  
Spread a little entropy till dreams come true  
(Ethan Rayne – based on the Brimstone and Treacle soundtrack) 

* * *

It was a five minute walk to the nearest diner, a Hopperesque 24/7 corner place with huge windows that greeted them with the delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee and baking. Decorated in light yellow and green, it would have looked bright and friendly but for the blinds that kept the direct sunlight out.

As one they headed for the booth closest to the telephone and the restrooms. Rayne beat Lindsey to the strategic seat with a clear view of the front door and the wall in the back. For once Lindsey didn't care. Why spoil the moment with petty rivalry? Rayne had just helped him cast his first spell. Reason enough to cut the man some slack.

"Remember yesterday, our talk about power?" Rayne asked once he was seated. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past ten minutes, almost preoccupied.

Lindsey slid onto the bench opposite him. "Power, commitment, payment," he quoted.

"Payment. Exactly." Rayne frowned at the neat array of shakers, and bottles: salt, pepper, Tabasco, A1 steak sauce, Worchestershire sauce, syrup, and ketchup were lined up in size order, like organ pipes. He picked up the salt shaker and toyed with it. "Everything comes with a price-tag. Even magic doesn't give you things for free. To do what you will, you need power. And that power has to come from somewhere."

"What about spells? Isn't the power in the words?" Lindsey asked.

"Spells and rituals do not generate power; they only focus it. They lend structure."

"Structure? A bit orderly for a man who worships Chaos with a capital C."

"Even I have certain rules to follow," Rayne admitted, still toying with the salt. He seemed subdued, as though a plan had fallen through.

Lindsey made a mental note to find out more about Rayne's limitations. Later. "So where does the power come from?" he asked. There was no need to fake interest and play the eager student. Lindsey truly wanted to know. Law or magic – it was all the same: To play the game you had to learn the rules. Bending them was for later.

The sorcerer smiled. "It's all around us," he said. "In the air, in the ground, in our bodies, even this salt shaker. There for the taking. However—" Rayne froze, as though struck by a thought. It only lasted a second or two. Moving the salt shaker like a chess piece, Rayne used it to capture the Tabasco bottle, and captured the syrup with the Tabasco. His nimble fingers would have made a card shark or street performer proud. Within seconds he had rearranged the bottles and shakers in a more chaotic fashion and upset the symmetry with which their table had been laid out. "However, not everybody's got what it takes. A trained sorcerer can—"

Rayne fell silent. Lindsey followed his gaze. The waitress, an attractive woman in her late twenties, was heading for their table. Lindsey couldn't shake the notion that the woman's sexy, hip-swinging gait was aimed at him. The feeling intensified when she leaned across the table to straighten the sugar caddy and to efficiently return the bottles and shakers to their previous strict order. Lindsey got a better than good look at her evenly tanned cleavage.

"Right, what can I get you to drink?" she asked with a flirtatious smile, handing first Rayne, then Lindsey a menu.

Lindsey refused the menu with a shake of his head. He already knew what he wanted. "I'll have coffee," he said. "And the Vegetable Omelet, white, no yolks."

It had been no lie when he'd told Rayne he was ravenous. He leaned back on his seat, feeling half drained and half elated, still tingling with something resembling afterglow. Who'd have thought that magic was better than cocaine or Ecstasy? Thankfully, his dick had given up hope and gone back to sleep, but his nuts felt uncomfortably hard and tight.

"And will that be one check or two?" The waitress brandished her pencil.

"Just one," Lindsey said.

"My friend will also have orange juice, and the blueberry pancakes," Rayne could be heard from behind the menu. "He needs his strength."

Lindsey opened his mouth to protest, but her pen already flew over the paper.

"What about you, sir?"

"Call me an incurable optimist, but I'll try the tea," Rayne said, for once not bothering to turn on his charm. He studied the menu with the intense concentration of a man facing a difficult choice. "And to eat… I'll have bacon and eggs, grilled tomatoes, French toast. And fried mushrooms, if you have them." He handed the menu back.

"Coming right up," the waitress said with forced cheer. When she left, the swing of her hips was considerably less pronounced.

"Swell. Now she thinks you're my sugar daddy," Lindsey said accusingly, once she was out of earshot.

"So? What would you prefer, son? Should I tell her it's the other way round? That you pay me for my services?" Rayne grinned, a wicked glint in his eye.

It wasn't quite a slap with a glove, but definitely something of a challenge. Lindsey stuck out his chin. "Let me see if I get this straight: I'm either the kept boy of an eccentric Brit almost twice my age, or stingy enough to hire the oldest gigolo in the Western hemisphere. Choices, choices. I'm assuming scenario two puts me on top, so that's my pick. Will you break it to the lady or should I?"

Rayne's leer transmuted into genuine laughter. He did not seem offended by Lindsey's references to his age.

"Now: can we get back to business? You were talking about trained sorcerers." Lindsey prompted.

Rayne's laughter drained away. He looked like a bearer of bad news. The table had been laid out with place mats, cutlery, and upside down coffee cups. Now he took one of the cups and turned it so the mouth faced upwards. "Sorcerers, warlocks, priests, witches – we're like this cup. Vessels," he said. "Only for magic, not coffee. Of course, some cups are bigger than others. Size does matter. So, we look for ways to hold more, like meditation, fasting, celibacy, sacrifices, pledges. Different strokes."

Lindsey nodded. Something told him that whatever means Rayne had chosen to hone his art, celibacy was not one of them. By 'pledge' Rayne probably meant allegiance to a supreme being, a greater demon or a god, like Janus. The question was, what kind of service did the two-faced god demand from his acolyte?

"One way to gain more power is to kill something," Rayne continued, as if reading Lindsey's thoughts. "A good sacrifice goes a long way." There was an unspoken question in his voice: Was Lindsey willing to kill?

"And? What's your preferred method?" Lindsey asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know." A flash of mirth briefly lit up Rayne's face, but underneath it he remained guarded. "Now the problem is, without talent you can fast or meditate all you like, and never float a pencil for as long as you live."

Lindsey didn't like the sound of that. Maybe it was Rayne's tone…. "I just made one fly loops," he pointed out, frowning, He sensed big 'but' on the horizon.

"That you did, but the power you used was mine." Rayne pointed at the cup in front of Lindsey, which was still upside down. "That's you. See the amount of coffee you could put in there?" At the bottom of the mug was a round hollow just deep enough to maybe hold a teaspoon full of liquid. "That's about as much magic as you can hope to use on your own."

Rayne paused again when the waitress arrived with his tea and a pot of coffee. Lindsey turned his cup over and held it out to her. They watched her fill Lindsey's cup with hot coffee. Rayne's words hung in the air like acrid smoke.

"I guess that means our deal is off," Lindsey finally said, staring at the steaming cup in front of him.

"I wouldn't say that," Rayne replied. "Remember the wards in the hotel? They're Enochian. Very old; very powerful. Good for a variety of things. There are even symbols that help augment inborn talent."

"So you'll do what, paint funny little squiggles on me?"

"For starters? Yeah, that's the plan. And if it works…" Rayne shrugged. "How about it? You afraid of needles?"

"Do I look afraid to you?"

The old sorcerer gave him a languid once over and smiled.

"What?" Lindsey barked, feeling somewhat hot underneath his collar.

"Just picturing you with a bit of paint and nothing else," Rayne grinned.

Lindsey snorted, unfazed. "Pass the sugar, daddy."

* * *


	8. Shine

# Part 8 – Shine

_And when I get a little hungry_  
He could give me all I could eat,  
And if I needed whiskey,  
He could serve it to me neat.  
But when it comes to loving,  
He'd better leave me alone,  
'Cause I've got you baby,  
And you give me all the love I need,  
Yes you give me all the love I need  
(Sugar Daddy – Fleetwood Mac) 

* * *

It was late, almost noon, by the time Ethan reached for his wallet to pay for their breakfast. He was chipper, not only because after two years of culinary deprivation bacon and eggs tasted like magic, but also because he felt one step closer towards gaining his apprentice's trust. Not that he expected the young lawyer to ever trust him completely; he wasn't the type; but a modicum of trust was essential for what Ethan had in mind. So, when his heart skipped a beat in an unexpectedly nervous flutter, he dismissed the feeling at once. His ticker was fine – the Initiative doctors had often said so during their experiments.

During the walk back to the hotel, Ethan's restlessness grew, and it had nothing to do with being horny, even though getting laid was moving up on Ethan's list of priorities.

Back in their room, he rifled through the remaining unopened boxes. He found mostly leftovers from when he'd bespelled the hotel. Nothing of worth, just commonplace stuff that had been too bulky to take along when he'd left, but too good to throw out. Soon the room was littered with books, crystals, pots, a Bunsen burner, a small rack of test tubes, and two dozen Mason jars filled with colored salts, minerals, and organic spell ingredients. It resembled an alchemist's yard sale.

Ethan stared at the mess with mounting irritation. Frowning, he picked up a jar of newt's eyes and sniffed. Gone off. He screwed the lid back on and dropped the whole jar into the wastebasket. It landed with a loud kerplunk, but thankfully it didn't break.

"What are you looking for?" Lindsey asked. He was lounging on the bed, one arm cushioning his head, the fingers of the other drumming impatiently on his denim-clad thigh, as though itching to strum the strings of his guitar. He hadn't bothered taking his boots off. The lad looked utterly fuck-worthy from head to toe – and he bloody well knew it.

Ethan sighed inwardly. What he wouldn't give right now for a nice uncomplicated shag. Nothing fancy, just a quick warm-up blowjob and then a slow comfortable fuck underneath that mirror, or against the wall… or both. Unfortunately Lindsey was anything but uncomplicated. Ethan still hadn't quite sussed out what it took to get him to drop his pants. He liked to think that he could nail a person's kinks at fifty paces, but in Lindsey's case he wasn't even a hundred percent sure if the lad was a top or bottom. The boy had a strong competitive streak, but he also knew how to bow to authority. Oh well, at least Ethan had found a few buttons that were worth pushing….

"Well? What are you looking for?" Lindsey repeated.

"Something to scry with," Ethan replied mechanically, his gaze briefly flitting to the stolen pack of tarot cards that sat on the telly, before gravitating back to the young man on the bed. The nervous knot in Ethan's stomach lessened.

"Scry?" Lindsey repeated. He sat up. His movements had the combined grace and strength of youth, perfect health, and probably some martial arts training. "As in information gathering? Like a locator spell?"

Although he'd just eaten, Ethan felt a sudden pang of hunger sweep his remaining apprehension away. No need for tarot cards. Those were for New Age chicks and Wicca wannabes anyway. That gut feeling? Probably just indigestion anyway. He graced his student with a mocking smile. "My, my, aren't we eager?" he said, raising his hands as if to ward off an enthusiastic puppy. "Let's stick to making pencils stand up, shall we? Speaking of standing up…."

* * *

Rayne disappeared inside the bathroom and returned with a transparent plastic cup. "Fill this up for me, will you? I need as much as you can come up with," he said, his mouth twitching. He indicated the colorful assortment of alchemical ingredients. "I have enough stuff here to concoct some body paint. Give me an hour or two and you can play with your pencil without my help."

Lindsey squinted at the old sorcerer. "Fill this with what?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Rayne said, faking innocence.

"You want to paint me with my own jism?" Lindsey asked, just to be sure.

"Life's a bitch." Rayne's smirked.

"You've got to be kidding."

"It's the nature of the spell. The runes let you store magical power, but they're choosy. They only 'accept' power from a pre-determined source. I decided to do you a favor and tie the spell to your prick – metaphorically speaking. After all, a good fuck is easier to come by than a complicated ritual."

"Let me get this straight: I gotta fuck someone first, before I can do magic?"

"Or get fucked." Rayne said cheerfully, giving the plastic cup an inviting shake. "I knew you were a smart lad the moment I laid eyes on you."

Okay, of all the attempts to get into his pants that Lindsey had encountered since he turned fifteen, this had to be the most absurd. He remembered from Rayne's file that the man had a tendency to think with his dick, and he had no qualms exploiting that knowledge to his advantage. The man's sexual word-plays didn't really faze Lindsey, not anymore. It was a battle of wits – feint, parry, thrust. Fun, too. And as long as the old fool was thinking about Lindsey's ass, he had little incentive to plot other, nastier ways of double-crossing him. But this was unexpectedly blatant. Somehow he'd expected Rayne to be more… subtle. It was almost disappointing.

"No way. Use something else."

"Alright," the sorcerer agreed amiably. "Blood works just as well. Better, in fact."

"And I'd have to do what, cut myself every time I want to do a spell?" Lindsey asked, unimpressed, thinking of the scars he'd seen on Rayne's arms. The concept of using bodily fluids for arcane purposes wasn't exactly left field. Hello? He'd worked for a firm that required their employees to sign contracts in blood - a lot less ridiculous than jerking off into a cup.

Rayne did not answer. His face was unreadable, but his silence was more telling than words. He wasn't suggesting self-mutilation; he meant spilling someone else's blood. "Forget I asked," Lindsey said, annoyed at himself for being so slow on the uptake. Somehow cold-blooded murder hadn't seemed like part of Rayne's repertoire.

"The world is full of people no one will ever miss," Rayne said without batting an eyelid.

Yeah, full of small time crooks, tramps, homeless people, runaway kids, whores. People like Brad Scott. Expendable. Human resources - with the stress on resources. "I know," Lindsey said. Suppressing a shudder, he flexed the fingers of his right hand. Brad's hand.

"Maybe you'd prefer to do a pretty girl? Remember Starshine?" the chaos mage continued softly. There was no way of telling whether Rayne was serious or just trying to push Lindsey's buttons. Was this some kind of test? The man's eyes looked like polished onyx, inscrutable. "You could make it quick. The girl wouldn't have to suffer. Not unless you wanted her to…."

Starshine, yeah. The gum-chewing sales clerk in the record store. The one that had been so inexplicably keen on sharing her phone number with an old guy she'd only just met. Lindsey didn't care for her one way or another, but the prospect of leaving a trail of butchered bodies in his wake like some whacko serial killer didn't appeal to him. Not that the cops would ever catch him, but still. Lindsey shook his head. "Not my style."

Something predatory in Rayne's features softened almost imperceptibly. "No? Then be a good boy and give me what I need."

Lindsey glared at him, unwilling to admit defeat.

"Need a hand?" Rayne asked mockingly.

Lindsey wordlessly snatched the cup out of his hand.

"Stay here or use the bathroom. I don't care," Rayne said, guessing correctly what went on in Lindsey's mind. "But if I were you I'd turn on the telly. Might help. Oh, and take your time."

Lindsey didn't bother replying. He shuffled around until he was comfortable, placed the cup on the bed beside him, then picked up the remote. He flipped through the channels until he came across a bathroom scene that looked promising: A tattooed masseur was rubbing oil onto the back of a very evenly tanned blonde. The guy didn't look half bad, muscled without being too beefy, but it was the woman who caught Lindsey's attention. Long legs, narrow waist, nice butt, short platinum blonde hair and a naughty smile. A second man, dark-haired and slim, clearly meant to be the woman's husband or boyfriend, was watching them, slowly stroking his cock to hardness.

Lindsey half-expected Rayne to bring out the popcorn and try to get an eyeful, but the old sorcerer turned his back on him and busied himself tidying up. Actually, the sounds of rummaging were distracting. Lindsey turned up the volume on the TV, hoping in a vindictive part of his brain that the sounds of panting and moaning would give the old bastard a hard-on the size of Texas. A hard-on Lindsey had no intention of relieving, unless Rayne got reincarnated as a size 10 blonde, and probably not even then.

On the TV screen the woman turned over, inviting the masseur to rub oil on her tits. Lindsey let his hand drift to his crotch, where his dick was already straining against the zipper. He cupped his hard-on through the fabric of his pants and boxers, squeezing and rubbing. He felt like he'd been hard for hours -- which wasn't far from the truth. The use of magic had made him horny as hell and Rayne's constant innuendoes hadn't helped matters.

The woman parted her legs a little, teasing both masseur and viewer. Oh yeah. The man's fingers stroked and rubbed her firm thighs and ass, traveling almost furtively towards her shaven pussy.

Trying to keep his breathing even and his movements sure and controlled, Lindsey slowly unbuttoned his pants and eased out his cock – wondering if Rayne was watching but deliberately not turning his head to find out. Let him watch. It wasn't like one could catch anything from a horny onlooker.

Onscreen, the woman got up, and husband-guy from the pool took her place. While the masseur was kneading her husband's back and ass, the woman slid her hand into the masseur's briefs, fondling his hardening cock underneath the white fabric.

Lindsey started to move his hand up and down, stroking himself expertly. 'Take your time.' He snorted, but he tried to be as slow as he could. He didn't stop or zap to another channel when the masseur and husband-guy started to kiss, or when the masseur got an expert blowjob from husband and wife. Lucky guy, was all Lindsey could think – and holy shit! – when the husband took the masseur's cock deep into his throat, while the woman sucked on the man's balls. Not quite the threesome he'd expected, but who the fuck cared?

Part of him wondered if Rayne liked sucking other men off… and whether he was any good at it. Probably. One of the stray images he'd picked up during the link with Rayne had been from that perspective. Rayne, on his knees, sucking off a tall, bookish looking man. Lindsey's heart, already hammering rapidly, sped up some more, and so did his hand.

The panting and grunting on screen were the only sounds in the room. What was Rayne doing? Was he watching? Was he looking at the screen or at Lindsey's cock? Lindsey would have liked to know, but he stubbornly kept his eyes glued to the screen, watching husband-guy take his 'wife' from behind, taking his cue from their rhythm, pushing into his hand every time the man thrust into the woman… Soon his hand was slick with pre-cum.

When the masseur aligned his thick cock at the husband's hole, and when he forged inside, slicked by nothing but spit, Lindsey shuddered. Purple sparks seemed to dance in front of his eyes. Fucking a good-looking woman while being fucked from behind? Yeah… his mouth was dry, and his heart was beating madly. He felt like a race-horse thundering towards the finishing line, panting and sweating, going faster and faster, straining forward …

Yes, almost… there….

Fuck… Something touched his left hand, startling him. The plastic cup! He grabbed it by reflex and looked up – right into the eyes of Ethan Rayne. He wrenched his gaze away, as something that might be anger but probably wasn't slammed into him with the subtlety of a runaway truck. He came hard only a dozen heartbeats later and in almost as many bursts, spending himself into the cup without a single thought for the absurdity of the situation.

That came later, when a hand appeared in his field of vision to first turn off the TV and then gingerly pry the cup out of his hands.

"Thank you," Rayne said softly, sounding more British than ever. He held the plastic glass like a teacup, with his pinky sticking out, and peered at the contents. "Perfect."

"Whatever you do with that," Lindsey croaked in a feeble attempt at humor, "don't expect me to pay child support."

"Oh, you're one of those, are you?" Rayne laughed affably. If one looked closely, he was flushed, breathing heavily, and his eyes were even darker than usual. For a second the sorcerer seemed undecided, on the verge of saying or maybe doing something that was against his nature, but in the end he merely gave Lindsey a pat on the shoulder and turned away, giving Lindsey a welcome and innuendo-free opportunity to tuck himself away and freshen up.

The bathroom was soothingly chilly. Lindsey washed his hands and splashed some cold water into his heated face. When he looked up and into the mirror, the face that stared back at him seemed to belong to a stranger.

* * *

Some people became lawyers to champion the downtrodden; others did it for the money. Some did it for the power. Ethan needed to be neither Henry Higgins nor Hannibal Lecter to know a social climber if he saw one. Lindsey MacDonald wasn't exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness, and he didn't seem interested in money for its own sake. Power, then. Oh well, nothing wrong with that.

Only, in Lindsey the hunger for power went hand-in-hand with disdain for those less ruthless than himself and only cursory respect for those higher up in the food chain. No real respect for the pecking order unless he was on top. But at least he was predictable.

Ethan would have liked nothing better than pounce on his pupil and fuck him into the mattress, or, for want of consent, disappear in the bathroom for a quarter of an hour and furiously jerk off to the memory of Lindsey jerking off; but that meant crossing the thin line between grudgingly respected teacher with a penchant for innuendo and dirty old man. Ethan had no intention whatsoever of losing his hard-earned sensei points, which is why he was currently grinding and stirring and mixing ingredients together, uncomfortably aware of Lindsey's assessing stare.

"Almost done," he said over his shoulder. He had cleared the small table, now he was busy pouring light blue sand from a bottle, drawing a circle of sand on its surface. When it was almost finished, Ethan placed the glass with the mixture he'd created in the middle, then completed the circle.

Massaging his temples, Ethan took a deep breath. He'd swallowed a handful of pills earlier, but they couldn't quite obliterate the migraine that was slowly building behind his eyes. Strictly speaking, he hadn't performed magic yet, because he had not yet tapped into the well of power inside him, but setting up a ritual and mixing potions came close enough for the chip to fire a few warning shots.

Lindsey leapt to his feet and joined Ethan at the table. "You wanna paint me with that?" he complained and pointed at the glass on the table. The liquid in the glass was an unappealing blue-gray mixture with the lumpy consistency of curdled milk.

"Nag, nag, nag," Ethan said, gracing Lindsey with a mocking smile that could almost be mistaken for a hint of fondness. He opened the pencil case that held his scalpels and took one of them out.

"I thought we agreed we weren't going to use blood," Lindsey pointed out. He didn't back away but he eyed the gleaming blade suspiciously.

"We did. This doesn't go into the paint, it's for the magic hotplate."

Without much ado, Ethan dragged the blade across his palm. Blood welled up quickly. "Janus, evoco vestram animam. Exaudi meam causam," he intoned and held his dripping palm over the circle of sand. Several drops of blood splashed on the crystalline grains, immediately dying them red. The redness spread quickly, racing in both directions like a flame on a gunpowder fuse in a Western movie, until the whole circle glowed in an unholy red.

"Verba volant, scripta manent. Janus, evoco," Ethan continued his invocation. He was panting and his face was set in a grimace of pain or effort, it was hard to tell which. "Evoco," he ground out, staggering backwards until he hit the bed. He slumped down heavily.

Meanwhile, the liquid in the glass started to bubble and boil. Its color changed first to mauve, then to purple and finally to black. The red circle stopped glowing. The sounds of bubbling ceased when the liquid came to rest. Steam rose from the glass along with a smell of burnt matches.

"Looks like you're one hell of a cook," Lindsey said. "Can I have fries with that?"

Ethan did not reply. He was harshly breathing in and out, in and out, fending off nausea and pain, cradling his head between his hands. Blood seeped from the cut in his palm and ran down his arm in a red line, slowly soaking the sleeve of his shirt. A second, thinner rivulet of crimson trickled down his cheek, creating the illusion of a head wound.

"You look like crap," Lindsey commented.

"Flattery… will get you… everywhere," Ethan choked out, his customary leer reduced to a mere ghost of a smile.

Lindsey shook his head. He disappeared inside the bathroom but returned a moment later with a few towels and a glass of water. Ethan had left his bottle of painkillers next to the TV. Lindsey picked it up and shook a few pills into his palm. But when Ethan reached for them, Lindsey pulled back his hand. "That spell you want me to assist you with," he said, "would that be some kind of healing spell?"

"Something like that," Ethan said. When he looked up he was no longer smiling.

"Why me?" Lindsey asked, keeping the pills out of Ethan's reach. "Why take on an apprentice? Why not go to a healer, to someone who knows what to do?"

"Janus," Ethan said. "Not too popular among healers."

Lindsey pondered this. "We'll do my locator spell first, and then we'll do your healing spell."

"Or what?"

"Or the deal is off," Lindsey said.

"You drive a hard bargain, son."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Lindsey said. "Deal?"

"Deal."

* * *

With infuriating slowness, Lindsey dropped the meds in Ethan's palm, one by one, and when he offered the glass of water it was with an exaggerated bow. Afterwards he treated Ethan's hand. The makeshift bandage didn't exactly look hospital issue, but at least it staunched the flow of blood. And if Lindsey's bedside manners left a lot to be desired, well, Ethan had learned to put up with a little discomfort. What he found much harder to stomach was the smugness with which Lindsey carried himself. Snotty little bastard.

He watched Lindsey saunter towards the table and study the glass of paint without touching it. The liquid was still steaming.

"It'll need a couple of hours to cool," Ethan said, trying to sound cheerful and alert. "Why don't you go and get us some sandwiches for later."

Lindsey gave him a hard stare, but he snatched up the room key. "If you want anything in particular, now's the time to say so."

"Surprise me." Ethan said, plastering a suggestive grin on his face.

Lindsey shrugged, but he left, Janus be thanked.

The instant the door fell into the lock, Ethan collapsed on the bed. His heart was pounding erratically in his chest, causing his whole body to thrum with an excruciating mixture of pain and need.

He would have liked nothing better than to quickly jerk off and roll over for a nap, but the chip's electric charge had left him limp, and the pain that racked his body was not the kind he got off on. Just sleep, then.

Ethan crawled under the covers, and closed his eyes, but sleep stayed out of reach. His heart refused to slow down and the lump in his throat made it hard to breathe. It took Ethan several minutes to identify the feeling as cold dread.

For all his inborn magical aptitude, Ethan had never been much of a seer. The two long years he'd served as an Initiative lab rat had been the worst of his life, yet he'd received no prior warning, not even the tiniest twinge of apprehension. Not that he would have listened anyway. As a follower of Janus he scarcely paid attention to omens or prophecies. Where was the fun, if one knew what lay ahead? Prophecies were only good for one thing: to be foiled as spectacularly as possible, no matter which side they favored.

However, some omens were harder to ignore than others.

About a year ago, a similar dread had slowly seeped first into Ethan's dreams and then into his waking hours - hellish images of blood and gore and unspeakable torture – more nihilistic than even a dedicated son of chaos could stomach.

The demons had felt it too. The whole prison had erupted into chaos, when one by one they'd started howling in terror or mindless blood lust. Even before the chant had leapt like wildfire from cell to cell, Ethan had known the name behind the chaos: Glorificus.

Then, after three days of pandemonium, at the crack of dawn, the uproar had died down, as suddenly as it had started. Ethan had never found out how the Beast had been stopped, but that morning, when the gut-churning apprehension disappeared, he'd known, deep in his bones, that the world had only just scraped past a genuine apocalypse. And he'd laughed.

And now? The same sense of foreboding hung in the air like a bleak chill. As he lay there, trying to unlock his cramped muscles and control his breathing, Ethan wondered how much time the earth had left. Right now, all over the globe, psychics had to be aware of something brewing, of destiny taking a turn for the worse.

The shockwave came sooner than anticipated: In the near distance, only a few hundred miles away, searing rage flared up like a beacon, powerful enough to punch a hole into the very fabric of the universe. Ethan cursed. Who'd be stupid enough to call directly upon the gods without the proper protocols and precautions? Fucking rank amateurs!

* * *


	9. Lines

# Part 9 – Lines

Two hours later, when Lindsey unlocked the door, he was greeted by the shrill ring of the phone. Years of eavesdropping in Wolfram & Hart's corridors of power kicked in at once, and he froze, one hand on the door handle, reasonably certain that the phone had obscured the sounds of his entry. Only one way to find out. Instead of walking inside, Lindsey held his breath to listen.

Sheets rustled as the sorcerer sat up and fumbled for the phone. "Yes? … That's right, put him through." A pause, then Rayne spoke up in a voice that was as effusive as it was false: "Walter! Thanks for calling, yes… So, you got my little shopping list? I hope—" Rayne fell silent.

The conversation Lindsey had tuned into was decidedly one-sided. Rayne sounded uncharacteristically defensive, but Lindsey remembered that Rayne had said he owed this Walter person.

"Now, look here, Walter, it wasn't my—No, that's not how it—Oh?" Rayne slipped out of bed and began to pace. "Well, you tell your so-called sources they've got it wrong. I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, in fact. I'm back in the game now. Oh come on, Walter; you know me. You know, I keep my promises. Give me what I need and I'll make it up to you. Yes, to the hotel. As soon as possible." Rayne stopped his nervous pacing and sat down.

"Oh that? You mean just now? Some amateur, no doubt. Better burn some incense though. Can't hurt… right. I will." His tone became more chatty, which Lindsey read as an indication that the main negotiations were over: "Ah, so you heard? Lionel, that's right. Well, he's—No, not yet, but—" At this point, Rayne fell silent again, listening intently. "Yes, I understand. I will. Cheers." With a soft click, Rayne put the receiver down.

Lindsey waited for another fifteen to twenty heartbeats, then fiddled with lock and key to produce official sounds of entry. "I hope you eat sushi," he said blithely.

Rayne sat on the bed, still cradling the phone. He wasn't quite as pallid as before, but the migraine-face was still there. The look he gave Lindsey was troubled. "Hm?"

"Sushi?" Lindsey asked, setting down a stack of take away dishes.

"Never had any," Rayne admitted, sounding more than a little preoccupied. "I suppose you could call me allergic to all things Japanese."

"Why's that?" Lindsey asked. He dropped the room key on the bed and headed for the glass jar to check the temperature of the magic paint. The liquid was no longer steaming.

"Please. Have you ever been to Japan?" Rayne asked, slowly warming to the subject. He joined Lindsey at the table. "Seen the quaint little Zen gardens they have there? Let me put it this way, nothing in this world has any business being too perfect, son. Nothing; not even food."

Lindsey strongly disagreed about that, but this was not the time to say so. He gave a non-committal shrug.

Rayne picked up the glass and gently shook it in front of his eyes then gave Lindsey an appraising once over. "Well, if it isn't your lucky day. This looks just right."

Lindsey squinted at the liquid. It was viscous like syrup, but black and oily looking. "How do I know this isn't going to turn me into—"

"My devoted sex-slave? Excellent suggestion," Rayne asked, giving the liquid a vigorous stir. To Lindsey's ears his cheer sounded forced. "Maybe later. Now, shall we?"

Without much further ado, Lindsey unbuttoned his shirt and took it off.

"Did I say you'd be levitating pencils on your own tonight?" Ethan asked, smiling. "Because with a little bit of luck you will." He picked out his paintbrush, dipped it into the oily substance, and began to work. He carefully painted a thick black line down Lindsey's breastbone.

Half an hour passed in which neither man said a word. Rayne worked slowly, carefully. Every brushstroke felt like a languid lick, sensuously wet. Where the ink came in contact with Lindsey's skin, a slow burn seeped into his flesh, but it was hard to tell if the sensation was one of heat or cold. Lindsey tried to ignore it as best as he could, along with the tingle it caused in his groin.

"Back at the diner you said you're a top," Rayne finally broke the silence, with a second paintbrush between his teeth slurring his speech. "Is that just conjecture, or spoken from experience? Have you actually fucked a guy before, Lindsey?"

"I'm not some blushing choirboy," Lindsey said evenly, even though the hot-and-cold lick of the brush was making it difficult to breathe and talk naturally. He couldn't quite decide if this was a pleasant experience or not. It was certainly intense. "'Course I have."

Lindsey gasped when the sorcerer began to paint his pectorals. Each paint stroke was an exquisite sensation bordering on both pain and pleasure. His nipples hardened almost painfully into pointy pebbles and his dick grew heavy.

"When?" Rayne switched to a thinner brush and rested a dry warm hand on Lindsey's shoulder. His face was so close to Lindsey's chest, his breath was a gentle tickle on Lindsey's skin.

"College," he said curtly.

"Ah yes, college, the great American playground for experimentation. Where you do all the naughty deeds your parents warned you about, before scurrying back to your dreary lives as poster children of Christian righteousness." The sorcerer paused and looked up to study Lindsey's face. "What about the other way ‘round?"

"A couple of times," Lindsey ground out, gritting his teeth. "Wasn't for me."

"Another student?" Rayne asked matter-of-factly.

"None of your business."

"One of the professors, then. No need to be coy. Sleeping with one's mentors is a time-honored tradition. Ask the ancient Greeks or the old samurai. Definitely a tradition that needs rekindling."

"Don't get your hopes up, Rayne," Lindsey snapped, even though a faint tremor ran through his body, starting in his balls and crawling up his spine, causing his scalp to tingle.

"Ah, but without hope we are nothing," Rayne said wistfully, for once without even a trace of irony. "Without hope I wouldn't be here, I'd still be sitting inside a—" he stopped himself. When he spoke again, his flippant smile was back. "What can I say? I'm an incurable optimist." He bent to his task again, but now he started to paint bands of runes around Lindsey's biceps.

Lindsey looked at the finished pattern on his chest. The symbols stood out in stark contrast, pitch black and gleaming and chilling, as though the ink was still wet. Maybe it was. He had to fight the urge to dip his finger into the paint.

Another shudder coursed through his body. Stronger this time, more insistent. Not unpleasant, not by a mile. Damn Rayne! He hadn't said anything about the symbols making the wearer horny.

"Did you ever use these symbols on yourself?" he asked the sorcerer, whose face was a mask of concentration.

"Oh yes," Rayne flashed him a wicked grin. "Always worked like a charm."

"Any side effects I should know about?" Lindsey asked.

The smile widened. "Like what?"

It was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"You son of a bitch!" Lindsey pushed the unsuspecting sorcerer backwards.

Rayne stumbled, arms flailing, but he was still quick-witted enough to hold on to the glass of paint and keep the contents from spilling on the carpet.

Lindsey grabbed Rayne's shirt and shoved him against the wall. A second later Lindsey was on him, hands slammed flat against the wall on both sides of the sorcerer's head, effectively trapping Rayne with his own body. Rayne stood spread-eagled, with his back against the wall, arms forming a T; the jar of paint in one hand, paintbrush in the other. He made no attempt to extricate himself, even when Lindsey forced his leg between his thighs. Rayne was hard, as Lindsey had known.

"Is that what you want, Rayne?" Lindsey snapped. "Well, let me tell you, I'm sick of your games."

"No games," Rayne stated, unfazed. "No side effects."

"Yeah? Care to explain this?" Lindsey rocked his hips, rubbing his hard-on against the other man. It was shocking how good the friction felt.

Rayne grew heavy-lidded but his voice stayed even. "Just a sign that the symbols are working. Your body tells you what it wants. And what it wants is to be filled."

"Shut up, Rayne!" He gave the sorcerer another shove, but Rayne's words echoed inside him. It was true; Lindsey could feel a growing emptiness inside him, a gaping void of almost insatiable need. Fuck! "That's what you've been after, from the word go, isn't it?"

"Son, I did almost every drug known to mankind. Had a demon's life-force inside me that sent my body into sensory overload. I shagged men and women, boys and girls. I've been a woman a few times. Some of the things I fucked weren't even human. I even fucked myself a couple of times." At Lindsey's startled glance he added: "It's possible, if you know what spells to use." Rayne raised a mocking eyebrow. "Do you honestly think, my dear boy, that all my waking hours revolve around putting it to you? Don't flatter yourself. I like a good fuck like the next man, and you're not exactly hard on the eyes, and if you like I can show you a good time, but this—" Rayne nodded towards the jar of paint in his hand, "this is business."

One by one, the words landed like lashes on bare skin, raising welts and bruises on Lindsey's ego that would sting for a long time. For a fraction of a second Lindsey pictured his hands around Rayne's neck, could almost feel the dry snap of the man's neck breaking in his grip, then his control snapped back into place. "Business," he choked out, pushing his anger away.

Rayne met his gaze evenly. "Your body is a vessel now, Lindsey. A vessel with the ability to store a considerable amount of power. It's what you wanted. But right now that vessel is empty. Your body is empty and it yearns to be made complete. To be filled. Filled with power."

Power. Rayne dangled the word in front of Lindsey like a carrot, and Lindsey hated him for it.

"Power," he echoed. He took a step back, releasing Rayne.

"Yes, my friend, power. That's what all this is about." Rayne chuckled. He dipped the brush into the jar, stirring the liquid suggestively. "If you want more, I can do your legs as well, but since you're only planning on floating pencils…."

"What happens when you're done painting?"

"You watch porn, jerk off, or get laid; I don't care. Get off, and the power will flow into you, fill you up." Rayne's voice was like honey, sweet and sticky, slowly trickling down Lindsey's spine. "In case you hadn't noticed: You're in a hotel full of hookers. You don't need me to get off."

Lindsey wordlessly toed off his boots and slipped out of his jeans. There was a considerable bulge in his briefs and a small wet stain, evidence that he was horny enough to be leaking but Lindsey was past caring.

If Rayne was surprised by Lindsey's alacrity, he didn't show it. He put the finishing touches to the symbols on Lindsey's second biceps, then dropped to his knees. Resting his wrist on Lindsey's thigh, he started to paint.

The perspective, when Lindsey looked down, was tantalizing. Rayne's mouth was less than twenty inches away from Lindsey's rock-hard cock. Lindsey hurriedly lifted his gaze to stare at the hideous wall paper and the ugly prints on the wall, trying to ignore the hot-and-cold paint-strokes and the tickle of Rayne's breath on his skin. The hotel might be full of hookers, but Rayne was right here, kneeling at his feet, and when it came to sucking cock the man could probably give Zelda's girls a run for their money.

"Who was the guy with the glasses?" Lindsey asked, uttering the first thing that popped into his brain. He regretted his words instantly, for he realized belatedly that his subconscious had taken him directly to the stolen memory of Rayne sucking off another man. However, the words were out before he could take them back.

The tickle stopped as Rayne pulled back. "What do you mean?"

Lindsey shook his head. "None of my business," he said. Finding out more about Rayne's private kinks and attachments would undoubtedly be useful in the future, but it also created an intimacy he could do without right now.

Rayne shrugged and returned to his calligraphy. "I suppose you mean Ripper," he said after a while. His tone was wistful. "Tall, ash-blond hair, earring?"

Lindsey nodded. "I saw him during the link."

"Oh, Ripper and I go way back, over thirty years. Used to be best mates."

More than mates, it would seem. "What happened?"

"Different sides of the tracks; change of priorities; betrayal – that kind of thing," Rayne said lightly. "Long story; frightfully sentimental."

Lindsey's schooled ear picked up a whole range of emotions in that throw-away dismissal. He was about to dig deeper, if only to distract himself from his dizzying horniness, when Rayne pulled back. "There. All done," he said. "It will take a few hours to dry. After that you can wear clothes over it, the paint won't smudge."

Lindsey walked into the bathroom to study his reflection. The symbols Rayne had painted were ornamental enough to pass as tribal tattoos, almost fashionable.

"How long will it stay on?"

"Two days, maybe three." Rayne poured the rest of the paint into a jar and screwed the lid shut, then joined Lindsey in the bathroom to rinse his paint brushes.

"That's not long." Lindsey frowned.

"Long enough," Rayne said, smiling.

* * *

 

"How much cash do you have?" Ethan turned to Lindsey, who was impatiently pacing up and down, willing the paint to dry faster. The lad was still mouthwateringly hard. Ah, the power of words… Ethan buried his smug grin of victory where Lindsey couldn't find it.

Lindsey paused. "A couple of thousand," he said, which meant he'd probably stashed away ten times the amount.

"Good." Ethan picked up the phone, sat down on the bed, and dialed the number of the esoteric shop, never taking his eyes off his apt pupil. The kid was primed to go off. Anger, lust, and ambition made a powerful mix; all it took now was the right spark to set him off. When the time was right. Soon.

"If you're thinking about hooking me up with some skanky ho—" Lindsey started.

Ethan silenced him with an authoritative gesture, even as he spoke into the mouthpiece. "Starshine? It's me, Ethan."

"Oh yeah, I remember. The Brit guy." The noisy crackle of gum popping traveled out of the receiver. "I passed your note on, like you asked."

"Thanks, pet, but that's not why I'm calling. Listen, that snake tattoo that winds round your memorably pretty belly, you said a friend of yours inked that. Would he be for hire? Do house calls perhaps?"

He could hear Starshine move the receiver from one ear to the other. "Carlos? Sure thang. You want his number?"

"Smart girl."

Ethan jotted down the name and number, turning on his charm for a bit of inconsequential small talk, even though it felt like he was quickly running out of time. In the distance the rage he'd felt earlier was building, reaching a frightening power level.

Calling the tattoo artist took less than a minute. No, Carlos was out. Should he call back? Ethan left his number and hung up.

"So now what?" Lindsey asked sullenly. "Do I float pencils? Watch porn? Pander to your voyeuristic streak?"

"Now we wait."

"Wait," Lindsey echoed.

"It's tea time," Ethan added, grinning maliciously. "didn't you know?"

* * *

"You could have said you were expecting a delivery," Lindsey pointed out a few hours later, dumping a heavy cardboard box on the bed. He was dressed, and no longer fully hard. His arousal had transmuted into a persistent if dull sense of craving, and his mind had a disconcerting tendency to wander into x-rated territory, but he had no intention of treating Rayne to another peep show.

"I suppose I could have," the sorcerer agreed amiably, "but I was pandering my voyeuristic streak, watching you pace up and down half-naked."

Scowling, Lindsey flipped him off, eliciting a genuine laugh.

In spite of his mirth Rayne gave off an uncharacteristically keen vibe. He reached for the box and swiftly ran his hands over it without actually touching it. "Just checking for unpleasant surprises," he explained softly. He was soon satisfied though, and he tore open the flaps and reached inside. The first item he lifted out was round and heavy and covered in a black velvet cloth.

Rayne peeled back the fabric to reveal a silver bowl. "For scrying. Don't ever touch it with your bare hands," he said. "It would contaminate the results, and I don't have the time to teach you the necessary cleansing spells."

Scrying. Finally! Lindsey felt a surge of excitement. It took him a moment to catch on to the fact that his anticipation had nothing to do with the prospect of finding Darla, and everything with the promise of a new lesson in spell-casting.

The smile Rayne gave him could almost be called indulgent. "It's yours, Lindsey. Consider it a gift from teacher to apt pupil. But don't expect any tacky inscriptions."

Lindsey had to grin at that. "What else you got there?"

"My, my, aren't we eager?" Ethan mocked him, but he quickly lifted the other items out of the box, mostly potions and sachets full of herbs. "You could call this the magical equivalent of a first aid kit, with a few alchemical items thrown in." He rifled through them with nimble fingers, clearly looking for something.

Rayne's fingers stilled when he came across a soft leather pouch. To Lindsey, he looked as though he'd held his breath for a long time and only now dared exhale. Or like a junkie, hankering for his shot. Rayne gingerly opened the pouch and tilted it. A shiny, glittering object slid into his palm. It was a gold coin, about the size of a silver dollar. Somehow Lindsey had expected something a little more spectacular.

Rayne held the coin in his hand for a minute, his lips moving silently. Then he raised it to his lips for a kiss, before slipping it back into its pouch. The pouch wandered into Rayne's pocket, and that was that. No word of explanation, no nothing.

"Right," he said, rubbing his hands. "We have work to do."

As he listened to his first lesson on locator spells, Lindsey couldn't help thinking that the old chaos mage looked alarmingly cheerful.

* * *

It was evening and already dark outside, when the tattoo artist called. Yeah, he made house calls – for friends of Starshine's at least - if the pay was right, and yeah, “soon” suited him just fine. How about tonight at eleven?

That left them with less than two hours to kill. Ethan made the arrangements, negotiated the price, and put the receiver down with a flourish. "We're in business," he said.

"What's the rush?" Lindsey's voice was rife with suspicion.

"I'm not entirely sure," Ethan said thoughtfully, for once not bothering to obfuscate the truth. "Something ugly is going on, not here, but back in Sunnydale. I can feel it. The sooner we get you juiced up, the better."

"What do you mean, “ugly”? How “ugly”?"

Ethan opened his mouth, but no word came over his lips, because excruciating pain suddenly blossomed inside his chest. For several heartbeats it felt as though his power was being wrapped in barbed wire, then ripped out of his body. A bitter taste of tanned leather and almonds rose like bile in his throat, mingling with something sickeningly sweet, like overripe fruit. It was enough to make him gag. He saw Lindsey stagger, hand over his heart, his features pale. He was going through a weaker echo of what Ethan was experiencing.

Ethan frantically erected all his mental barricades to stop the painful drain. Then the link snapped, and the foul taste was gone. Ethan exhaled, swaying. "That ugly," he said. "And then some."

"What was that?" Lindsey asked, glaring at Ethan as though he were responsible.

"That," Ethan said, suppressing a shudder, "was Rack, getting shucked like an oyster. Looks like someone had a score to settle. Maybe the Madison girl." In the distance the angry rumble of power flickered like a distant thunderstorm. Vengeance, like avarice, was rarely sated when fed.

"And that affects us how?" Lindsey asked with a frown.

"Let me put it this way: Anyone strong and furious enough to suck a mage like Rack dry in under ten seconds is pretty bad news for just about anybody. This is just the beginning."

Lindsey opened his mouth, but before he could ask any more questions, Ethan gave him a slap on the back. "Let's go," he said.

"Where're we going?"

"Downstairs. First we'll buy you a drink, and then we'll buy you a girl, or a boy, whatever tickles your fancy."

Oh no, we won't, Lindsey thought. But he followed the sorcerer anyway.

* * *

"I don't pay for sexual favors," Lindsey repeated sullenly, as Ethan steered him through the hotel lobby and towards the men's restroom. "Not my style."

Ethan snorted. Sex, like everything else in this world, always had a price tag attached to it, thanks to Eve discovering her hankering for fresh fruit. You always paid for it, one way or another. Only some currencies were more tangible than others.

"Is that so?" he asked, faking surprise. "Without meaning to sound facetious, but shouldn't you of all people appreciate professionalism?"

Predictably, that didn't go down well with lawyer boy. "I never pay, because I don't have to," Lindsey shot back. "Unlike some."

Ethan grinned, unfazed, and opened the restroom door. "After you," he said, with a flourish. He loved yanking Lindsey's chain – definitely something he was going to miss.

Lindsey scowled, but stepped inside after only the briefest moment of hesitation. Three paces into the seedy, badly ventilated room he stopped, eyeing the chipped tiles and the obscene graffiti with distaste.

"Wow, Rayne. I'm impressed. You sure have an affinity for cozy places," he groused.

"Ah yes, that would be one of my more redeeming features." Ethan chuckled. With a shooing gesture, he herded his companion past a dozen open stalls towards the far end of the room.

One had to hand it to Lindsey. He carried himself like a true lawyer, smooth and confident, trying hard not to let on that this little excursion into the hotel restroom rattled him. However, underneath the courtroom veneer, Lindsey was wary and restless like a trapped animal. Nervous. As though he expected Ethan to manhandle him into one of the stalls, for a fast and dirty round of stand and deliver. Lindsey's eyes were dark with unacknowledged arousal. If Ethan were to cop a feel now, Lindsey would probably hiss and rub against his palm like a cat in heat.

Tempting. But not good enough, and besides, the clock was ticking; back in Sunnydale that red-hot rage was still brewing, and there was no way of knowing if the Slayer was taking care of it. What if Rack's killer was hungry for more? More magic, more death? He or she was just one teleportation spell away, one small step for a powerful spell caster. Ethan pushed temptation aside, at least for now, and pressed the hidden switch to unlock the hindmost stall.

Some of the tension left Lindsey's body, even as his interest went up a notch.

They squeezed into the narrow stall. When Ethan indicated the old-fashioned chain, Lindsey pulled, without further argument.

Startled, he jerked around to face Ethan. "I felt… sense… something."

"What does it feel like?"

Lindsey closed his eyes to concentrate. "Not feel. It's more like… like a flavor. What is it?"

"What kind of flavor?" Ethan asked.

"Dark. Bitter. Sweet. Like licorice." Lindsey opened his eyes, to stare at him. "Like you."

"Excellent. You just sensed a portal opening and you identified its creator. That's a straight A, son." Ethan patted Lindsey on the back, genuinely pleased with his progress.

With his keen intelligence and his sheer pig-headed determination, Lindsey exceeded Ethan's wildest expectations. The lad's memory was a tidy and thoroughly cross-referenced place in which nothing got lost. In that respect he was a match even for Ripper. Who'd have thought that lawyers made good sorcerer-material? And who'd have thought that Ethan actually enjoyed teaching? He was almost sorry that the arrangement was about to draw to a close.

They stepped through the magic veil and into the bar, where they were greeted by stale cigarette smoke and an old Ella Fitzgerald song. Only a dozen patrons were visible, most of them human – or human-seeming. Whoever had programmed the juke box to play first Ella and then Eartha Kitt had to be a vampire. Bloodsuckers were always utterly yesteryear.

There were no customers at the counter, so that's where Ethan headed. He slid onto the bar stool and nodded at the bartender. "Hello, Bruno."

"Good evening, Mr. Rayne." The chaos demon inclined his head. A blob of slime that oozed from one of his antlers wobbled precariously. "The usual?"

"If you please. And a—" he regarded Lindsey, who stood leaning with one elbow resting on the counter in a cocky posture that consciously or sub-consciously said 'looking for a fuck.'

"TNT," Lindsey said, casually taking in his new surroundings.

"—and a TNT for my bright young apprentice here," Ethan continued, surprised when the words came out with more proprietary pride than irony.

Ethan picked up his drink and turned on his stool to scan the clientele. A handful of hookers sat in one of the booths, talking to each other and applying make-up, getting ready for business.

"Don't bother," Lindsey spat, following Ethan's glance. "I told you: I never pay for it."

Ethan inclined his head, as though to say 'suit yourself.' A restless silence ensued. "Tell me, Lindsey," Ethan said after a while, in order to distract himself from the growing gloom and doom in the distance... "What do you think you'd you be doing right now, if you and I had never met?"

* * *

 

For starters, Lindsey thought, he sure wouldn't be sitting here, keyed up like hell, sipping his drink and ogling a bunch of hookers. He'd be chasing after Darla instead, like so many times before; gas pedal hitting the floor board of his truck, warm wind in his face, road map flapping and rustling on the passenger seat, rock music blaring from the speakers. Speeding towards another heap of dead and drained bodies and another cold trail.

Lack of closure was a bitch.

"I don't know. I'd be on the road, I guess," Lindsey said vaguely. 'Drifting from crap bar, to crap job, to crap motel.' Only he didn't say that out loud.

"Ah yes, looking for your vampire friend."

"Yeah, her." Lindsey rolled his empty glass between his palms, wondering. When exactly had chasing Darla turned into his raison-d'être? When she left him and Lilah alive? When Angel sent him packing? And did it matter?

A year on the road; always adrift, like some kind of bum. Always looking over his shoulder, wondering when his leverage would expire. Thinking that if he reached the end of the trail and Darla killed him, it would at least be a form of closure.

Deep down, Lindsey knew he was dangerously close to throwing his life away. Only, what else could he have done? Donned spurs and a white hat, opening up his own 'we help the helpless' firm? No thanks. Saving people for karmic payback and a pat on the back was Angel's gig, not Lindsey's. Or he could have gotten a fake ID and license and set up his own one-man law firm in some godforsaken backwater town. Yeah, right. He hadn't graduated from Hastings and back-stabbed his way up the corporate ladder to settle disputes among a bunch of Okie farmers who paid for legal advice with a Christmas turkey and strawberry jam from the Missus.

On the road he'd at least felt like he was heading somewhere.

Rayne ordered a new round. "What will happen once you find her?”

"Depends."

"On what?" Rayne asked, undeterred by Lindsey's curt tone.

Lindsey did not answer. He'd dreamt of an alliance against Angel, pictured himself plotting revenge while thrusting into her. He and Darla both had a score to settle with Angel. And the fact that she had spared Lindsey had to mean something, right? That Lindsey was meant for something greater. That, like Angel, he had a destiny waiting for him, somewhere. All he had to do was find it.

And now, with Rayne's teachings, he actually had a chance of catching up with Darla. Soon he'd be able to summon a tell-tale little red dot to trace her movements on a map. And more. Soon he'd—

"Wait here," Rayne interrupted Lindsey's train of thought and slipped off his stool to greet a woman who had just walked into the bar. She was in her twenties, her hair a mass of lustrous auburn curls, and her figure perfect in every way. High heels and leather skirt said 'hooker' but her smile was far from jaded. Radiant, warm, and just a little mysterious, it went directly to Lindsey's groin.

"Ruby! It's a pleasure to see you," the old sorcerer exclaimed, loud enough for Lindsey to hear. "You look lovely."

"Oh come on, Ethan, you know the pleasure's all mine!" Even as she leaned forward to kiss Rayne on the cheek, her appraising gaze slithered down Lindsey's body like a silk scarf, resting briefly on his crotch, causing his cock to twitch inside his pants, then back up to his face. Hungry eyes met Lindsey's stare – only for a second, but long enough to wreak havoc with his body. A hot rush of arousal washed down his spine, and settled between his legs in the shape of a lingering tingle.

If Ethan was setting him up with her, Lindsey could see himself set aside his never-pay-for-it principle just once.

His mouth felt parched. Heart racing, and with an uncomfortable tightness in his pants, Lindsey watched Rayne whisper something into Ruby's ear. They both smiled, looking annoyingly comfortable with each other, then the woman inclined her head, agreeing to Rayne's suggestion, but instead of joining Lindsey at the bar, they walked off, laughing. They headed towards the restrooms, and disappeared out of sight.

'Wait here,' Rayne had said, in his teacher-voice. For a second or two, Lindsey considered defying his teacher's instruction, but then he turned towards the bartender instead. "Another one," he said, angry at himself for complying, and furious at Rayne for leaving him to stew in his own juices without so much as an explanation.

* * *

 

"Thank you for playing along, dear," Ethan said, once they were out of sight and out of earshot.

Ruby smiled, locking the door behind them. They were inside a small office. Outside there was a sign that said 'private'; inside there were a handful of CCTV screens that monitored different parts of the bar and hotel through inconspicuously placed cameras.

"What are friends for?" Her voice grew sultry. "So, does this mean you'd like to renew our very special friendship? I missed you," she said throatily, tapping his chest with a scarlet fingernail. "You always knew how to show a girl a good time, or a guy…"

The last few words were spoken with a perfect British accent. The woman's features started to melt and rearrange themselves. The auburn mane paled to ash-blond, then shrank until it was short cropped, the nose grew bigger, the full red lips paled and thinned while the chin broadened. At the same time she grew taller and broader, her tits were absorbed by an expanding chest. The last thing that changed were the clothes, fishnet stockings and black leather skirt morphed briefly into blue jeans, but then into tweed pants. The red latex bustier turned into a starched white shirt and a tie.

The hand that rested lightly on Ethan's chest slid downwards purposefully.

"Not today," Ethan said, although he felt his body responding. Too long, since he'd felt those hands on his body.

"I know what you need, Ethan," 'Giles' crooned, deftly unbuttoning Ethan's fly. He slid his hand inside Ethan's slacks to fondle his growing hardness. "Let me take care of you."

Ethan inhaled sharply. Definitely too long. But he shook his head. "We have to talk!"

"Why, what's wrong? Oh, how could I forget?" With his free hand 'Giles' reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket, fished out a pair of spectacles, and put them on. The other hand continued to slowly stroke Ethan's cock, never missing a beat. "I remember how you always liked to take them off me…."

It felt good. Perfect. Nevertheless, Ethan caught the strong wrist, stopping its movement. "Cut it out, Zelda," he snapped, and added, surprised at his own vehemence. "It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but trust me, I'm not in the mood."

'Giles' peered at him more closely. "Don't try to tell me you finally decided to move on and forget your stuffy Watcher friend, because I've got evidence to the contrary right here in my hand."

"He's not my friend," Ethan said, even though saying it out loud stung. He pushed Zelda's hand away and zipped up his slacks.

'Giles' pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and polished his glasses. Every single gesture was a perfect reenactment of the real thing. "Is it possible? Could it be that you're really serious about that kid Lionel? I thought he was just another mark, but if he's for keeps, I promise to keep my paws off him."

"Good girl," Ethan said. For keeps? Yeah, one could call it that.

"Too bad," the succubus mused. "He's positively mouthwatering. What did you do to get him worked up like that? I could smell him the second I walked in."

"Never mind that," Ethan said. "Listen, dear, I need you to do me a favor."

"Any time. Just say the word. How do you want me?"

The succubus started to change again, rearranging Rupert's features into Lindsey's.

"No wait, that's not what I meant," Ethan burst out. "Stop it."

Zelda froze in mid-transformation, half way between Ripper and Lindsey, dressed in faded jeans, and a tight white T-shirt that showed off his young, well-trained body. The result didn't look half bad, Ethan noted.

After a quick glance in the mirror on the wall, the succubus added a black leather jacket, and tightened the pants, outlining a considerable package. The shoes morphed into Cowboy boots. "How do I look?"

"Do you really have to ask, love? I'd shag you in a heartbeat. Maybe I will, later."

"What's wrong with now? I know you want—"

"It's not about who I want," Ethan interrupted quickly. "It's about who he wants."

"A threesome?" The succubus regarded him hungrily, then his face fell. "No, that's not it. That's not what you're asking, is it?"

"I'm afraid not."

The shape-changer shook his head. "Please, Ethan, you know I don't do that sort of thing. It's unethical."

"Zelda, please, just this once," Ethan wheedled, and added truthfully. "Look, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Zelda wasn't human, that he/she was, in fact, a demon several times Ethan's age. Not so now. Because of their long acquaintance the succubus hadn't bothered with a deep reading before, but now Ethan could feel a gentle but thorough probing.

"You've changed," Zelda finally said.

"No, I haven't. I'm still the man who helped you turn your prick of a husband into a toad." Ethan gestured at the terrarium that graced the far wall. Inside sat a huge horned toad. As if on cue, the ugly amphibian croaked.

The succubus sighed. "Very well, my dear; just this once; for old times' sake." He perched on the desk to fiddle with the settings of the surveillance equipment, bringing Lindsey's image on the screen.

Lindsey still sat at the bar, slowly sipping his drink, a deep frown testimony to his mounting impatience. Zelda touched the screen. A moment later, the shape-changer's features shimmered until Ethan was looking at a slightly more sinister looking version of himself.

"There. Satisfied?" Zelda asked. "Is that what you wanted to know?"  
Ethan shook his head. "Dig deeper," he said.

Moments later the beautiful blond woman he'd seen in Lindsey's memories stood before him, pale and proud. This had to be Darla. But the succubus did not stop there, he/she continued morphing until Ethan looked at a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man with broody features and a frown as pronounced as Lindsey's. He too had featured in Lindsey's memories. Curious.

"He has some interesting fantasies about these two," Zelda said.

"I'm not surprised," Ethan said, and added: "Deeper."

"I shouldn't," the shape-changer said, almost bashfully. But Zelda's features and clothes rearranged themselves once more, this time into a solidly built man in uniform with light gray eyes and short-cropped, dark blond hair.

Ethan smiled, recognizing the face before him from the link he'd shared with Lindsey. It was the proof he'd been looking for. The key that would help him get under Lindsey's skin. "I owe you, Zelda," he said and planted a kiss on the man's cheek. He didn't flinch or pull back when he felt flesh and skin morph under his touch. By the time he pulled back, Zelda had morphed back into middle-aged, be-spectacled white hat, Rupert Giles.

"I don't know what you're planning, Ethan," 'Giles' said calmly, rationally, "but it seems to me that you are frightfully…er… preoccupied. Come, let me assist you; let me take the edge off. I dare say, it will clear your mind, help you stay in control." He stepped closer. "I know just what you need."

This time, when the Giles-shaped hand slid inside his pants, Ethan surrendered to the sensation of a warm rough palm against his skin, to the strong, familiar fingers that wrapped themselves around his hardness, and later to Giles's well-slicked cock as it slowly forged inside to fill him up completely. Bent over Zelda's desk, Ethan surrendered to slow shallow thrusts, surrendered to murmured words of assurance, surrendered to an unexpectedly gentle hand on the nape of his back, surrendered to the power of illusion.

Later, after they'd both cleaned up, Ethan regarded the demon who wore Giles's looks. "I'm getting too old for this," he said, smiling faintly.

At that, 'Giles' aged into seventy-something years old Zelda, complete with too much make-up and jingling bracelets. "Don't talk to me about age, young man."

Ethan chuckled, but then he grew serious. "I know I never asked you before, but… would you—?" He gestured towards her.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

The air shimmered around her and then she stood before him, eyes burning like coals, tail swishing nervously. Still humanoid, but wrapped in leathery, steel-tipped wings; with scaly skin and sharp fangs, and crimson hair that writhed like living flames. Hellishly beautiful.

Ethan lifted her clawed hands to his lips for a kiss. "Thank you, my dear."

"Just be careful," The demon said, gesturing towards the surveillance monitor. "He's seething with anger."

Ethan sighed. "I know."

* * *

Lindsey hated waiting. He could be patient enough when he was the one setting the traps or calling the shots, but he had no palate for being kept waiting without some kind of explanation. Rayne was playing it annoyingly close to his chest.

Bored, Lindsey studied the bar and everybody in it. Compared to Caritas this was a dump. And the taciturn bartender couldn't hold a candle to The Host. Too bad. Right now, an aura-reading would have come in handy. Lindsey felt a pang of longing for his guitar, which sat upstairs in their room, and which he hadn't played in days. Normally he practiced every day, but not with Rayne around. His music was the only thing that Rayne had not been able to get his mitts on, and Lindsey wanted to keep it that way.

The hookers appraised them from their table, trying to decide if he was a trick or not, but he shooed them away. Make-up perfected, they finished their drinks, adjusted their Pretty Woman outfits and high-heeled out.

Lindsey wasn't alone for long though, because a lithe woman with Marlene Dietrich eyes sidled up to him. "Hello, baby," she said huskily. "You wouldn't have a light, would you?" She waved a slim mentholated cigarette under his nose.

This had to be the oldest line ever, older than grit. "I don't do vamps," Lindsey said coldly. "Blood breath? Complete turn off."

"Oh, but I could make it so good, baby" she purred, brushing against his thigh almost accidentally. Flecks of copper lit up her eyes.

Sparks of desire ignited Lindsey's groin. He inwardly cursed the runes on his skin. This was worse than being nineteen again. His body was urgently telling him 'yes, fuck her now'. And why not? While Lindsey was stewing in his own juices, Rayne was probably putting it to his friend Ruby. Lindsey swallowed, fending off images of tangled limbs and sweat-slick bodies. He rudely knocked her wayward hand away. "Sorry, not interested."

She snarled and glared at him; after a moment of indecision she stalked off.

Lindsey stared morosely at his half-full drink. Deciding that his brain was already addled enough, he pushed the glass away.

When Rayne returned he was on his own, cloaked in an almost tangible sense of satisfaction that only served to aggravate Lindsey further. "And?" he snapped. "How much?"

Rayne looked puzzled, then amused. "Oh you mean Ruby? And here I was, thinking you never pay for it."

Lindsey scowled.

Rayne chuckled. "Believe me, you can't afford her."

"Mr. Rayne," Bruno interrupted them, muting the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver with one hand. "Someone named Carlos is here to see you. He's waiting in the lobby."

"Well now, how's that for good timing?" Rayne said, smiling cheerfully. He counted a few banknotes on the counter, including a generous tip for Bruno, and grabbed Lindsey's elbow. "Come along, Linds, time for needles and pins."


	10. Mark

# Part 10 – Mark

_Welcome to my life, tattoo_  
We've a long time together, me and you  
I expect I'll regret you  
But the skin graft man won't get you  
You'll be there when I die  
Tattoo  
(Tattoo – The Who) 

 

The tattoo artist - Carlos - had brought an associate. Pleased, Rayne discussed inks with them and gave instructions, while Lindsey stripped down to his waist. Carlos studied the symbols and suggested inking them over several sessions; but with a perturbed glance in Lindsey's direction, Rayne insisted the tattoo had to be done tonight. Carlos shrugged, named his price, and then, with a minimum of fuss, the two men unpacked their needles, ink bottles, surgical gloves, tissues, and other paraphernalia of their trade.

While they set up everything, Rayne took Lindsey aside. "This is going to be intense. It might be wise to take the edge off first." He smiled – an uncommonly kind smile, not a leer. "Take a shower. Don't worry about the paint, it can take a bit of water."

It made sense, even though the suggestion came from Rayne. Lindsey didn't bother looking for the catch. He stepped into the bathroom and out of his pants with an almost overwhelming sense of relief. The last time he'd felt this horny and hormone-addled, he'd been in high school. He felt only a few strokes away from climaxing. Maybe he was.

He stepped under the hot spray, lathered himself, and let his hand wander down to his hard-on, after all that's why he was showering. The memory of the red-haired hooker downstairs, the one Rayne had called Ruby, was the first that sprang to mind, and Lindsey let his imagination take it from there. Pushing Rayne out of the picture, Lindsey imagined her dressed in nothing but black lace and, yes, - stockings - her tits and thighs pale by contrast, the color of cream. He had her kneel in front of him, open-mouthed, hazel eyes demurely cast down, dark lashes forming black half moons, lips and tongue working his dick, one hand firmly clasping the root, while the other fondled his balls. Yes… Lindsey's hand sped up. He was close, no need to draw things out, just a fast… hard… yeah, come on, girl, look up… what was her name again, Ruby? Whatever. Panting, he thrust into his soap-slicked fist, no, not his hand, her warm wet mouth, and … oh god… her fingers strayed between his legs and Lindsey made room for her hand and then a finger breached his body and pushed inside and she looked up, smiling… her eyes wicked, almost black, and – fuck! – not hers at all…

With his hand wrapped around his softening cock, Lindsey stood slumped against cool tiles, panting, and watched the hot water wash every trace of his climax away.

Faint tremors rocked his body, after-shocks of his disproportionately good climax mingling with eddies of anger – at himself, at Rayne, and at life in general for putting him into this absurd situation. He'd sensed it, had felt the magic building inside him, even as his orgasm overtook him, and now the part of him that had felt so achingly hollow, felt… no, not sated, but slightly less empty. It was the proof he needed, evidence that the magic runes were working.

Raw power: at his beck and call, finally. Lindsey closed his eyes. Remembering Rayne's lectures, he gathered, honed and shaped that power, bent it to his will, then opened his eyes again. One look at the faucets and they turned on their own, shutting the water off. The effort almost made Lindsey's knees buckle, and he could feel the emptiness return as his power level dropped, but the strain was nothing compared to the triumph he felt. He'd used magic; his own; not Rayne's, and without help. Too bad Rayne hadn't been here to see it.

Although… on second thought, maybe it was better if Rayne underestimated him. The minute Rayne thought that Lindsey was ready to do that healing spell for him, he'd insist on it, and that would effectively terminate the apprenticeship. One had to hand it to Rayne; he was an arrogant bastard, quick to blow his own trumpet; but that didn't change the fact that he knew what he was doing. Lindsey had seen his share of bad teachers at college, and he'd half expected Rayne to fall into that category; still the man possessed a genuine passion for his subject. Randy fucker or no, Rayne was one of the best teachers Lindsey had ever had. Lindsey had no intention of letting the man's knowledge and skill out of his grasp.

He slipped into clean underwear and his pants, took a deep breath, and walked back into the bedroom. Everything looked ready. The bed had been stripped of its covers and pillows. It looked almost like an altar and when he lay down on it, spread-eagled, it only reinforced that impression.

Carlos and his associate were men of few words; they worked quietly. For a long time the only sounds in the room were the hum of the AC unit, the high pitched sound of the tattoo machines, and an occasional rustle of fabric, whenever they shifted to gain better access. Thankfully, Rayne kept his mouth shut.

If Lindsey had thought getting painted was intense, being tattooed taught him the real meaning of the word. The needles pierced his skin, with a dull, scraping sensation rather than the sharp bite of an injection needle. It wasn't exactly painful, at least not at first, just grating. Although 'grating' wasn't quite the right word either. Something about the vibrations combined with the hot-and-cold sensation of Rayne's paint, so that in the end Lindsey found himself teetering between pleasure, pain, and over-stimulation. He couldn't squirm, for fear of upsetting the tattoo artist's aim. All he could do was close his eyes, grit his teeth, and contemplate some painful kind of payback for the old sorcerer.

Fortunately, with both artists inking simultaneously, the tattoos grew rapidly. After less than two hours both arm bands were done, and Carlos and his partner stepped out on the balcony for a smoke. By then, Lindsey felt like jumping out of his skin, so he was grateful for the brief reprieve.

He was less grateful when the mattress tilted and Rayne sat down beside him. Lindsey kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore him. Unfortunately Rayne's scent was difficult to ignore - masculine, with a sweet-and-salty tang from the alchemical ingredients he'd handled earlier.

"Can I get you anything?" Rayne's voice was soft. "Coffee? Tea?"

It sounded like a harmless offer without any hidden motive, but Lindsey reminded himself that nothing about Rayne was ever harmless or simple. Rayne hadn't merited a fat W & H file because he was overflowing with the milk of human kindness. He turned his head to stare at the old sorcerer. "What do you want, Rayne?"

"Have you ever felt like you're not even in the game?" Rayne asked. He unscrewed a small jar. It held some kind of ointment that looked like Vaseline, but smelled tart and sweet. "Like you're not a player, or even one of the pieces, but merely someone who watches from the sidelines as destiny unfolds."

"Your point being?" Lindsey bristled. But even as the words spewed forth, he realized that Rayne wasn't goading him, but referring to himself.

"My point is: Rack's death was only the beginning. Something's brewing, something big."

"And that concerns us how?"

"Oh, it will concern us once it destroys us all – you, me, and this Darla of yours. Every living and breathing thing – and a few undead ones as well." For a second there was a faraway look in Rayne's eyes. Then he literally snapped back, focusing on Lindsey's biceps. He dipped his fingers into the jar and started to rub the salve on the finished tattoos, massaging it very gently into Lindsey's sensitized skin.

It was worse than the scraping pleasure-and-pain of the needle and the magic paint. This was gentle, soothing rather than sensuous, the kind of touch one willingly leaned into, only amplified by magic and arousal. Small groans of pleasure hatched inside Lindsey's throat and he had to bite his lips, fighting pleasure with pain, to keep them from escaping, yet even then, his breath came in tell-tale bursts, too fast and too loud.

"If that's supposed to frighten me, it ain't working," Lindsey ground out.

"You got it all wrong, my dear boy," Rayne said, causing an unwelcome surge of unbridled lust to sear through Lindsey's veins. "I know you're not afraid. But I am. I like being alive, thank you very much."

"What are you proposing?" Lindsey asked. Because that's what this was; Rayne was negotiating; trying to push Lindsey's buttons. Not that Lindsey was surprised. He'd made his bed and now he had to lie in it. If he were in Rayne's shoes he'd do the same thing. Hell, he could handle Rayne and he could handle the runes' side effects. Still a lot less messy than having to eviscerate people for power. "Let me guess: You want me to do that healing spell sooner."

"I won't lie to you, Lindsey," Rayne said quietly, after wrapping cling film around the moisturized arm and moving on to repeat the treatment on the other tattoo. "That thing inside my head – that tumor – is killing me slowly. And it's diminishing my abilities. If Rack's killer were here we'd both be dry husks faster than you can blink."

"I'll think about it," Lindsey said. It was a lie, of course, but one that should get Rayne off his back, at least for now.

Rayne patted his shoulder and rose to his feet. "See that you do, Lindsey," he said. Maybe Lindsey was mistaken, but for a second he thought he detected a malicious glint in Rayne's hooded gaze. And that too, like the man's touch and sultry voice, made his cock twitch.

* * *

Four hours later, the tattoos were done, and Carlos and his taciturn assistant were packing up and getting ready to leave. Lindsey hopped off the bed, grabbed a button-down shirt and shrugged into it. His movements were jerky and he repeatedly ran his hands through his hair.

"Say, Carlos," Ethan said, keeping a vigilant eye on his highly-strung apprentice even as he nimbly counted through a wad of bills to pay the two men. "If you knew you were definitely going to snuff it tomorrow, what would you do with your last remaining hours? How'd you go out?" His tone was conversational, placing the question in the realm of the purely hypothetical.

"I'd smoke the best shit in town and eat the world's best empanadas at my mamá's, " Carlos said promptly. "And then I'd grab a few bottles of tequila and take them to the Golden Dragon Massage Parlor down 2nd street, near Folsom, where I'd ask for a twin massage, full service." Carlos laughed. "I'd have myself a perfect day. Of course, afterwards I'd go to confession." He winked.

"I say! You're quite the philosopher, aren't you?" Ethan tipped him with an extra twenty out of Lindsey's wallet before turning to the second man. "How 'bout you?"

"I'd do what I always do," the artist answered thoughtfully, dropping his surgical gloves in the trash. "You know, eat, drink, and work on my paintings."

"You'd change nothing?"

"There's this book I'm reading… I might read the last page, to see how it ends." He shrugged. "Then again, I might not."

"Must be some book." Ethan gave him a pat on the back and two tens. His patience was wearing thin, but he managed to show the two men out without undue haste.

"Before you ask -- let me tell you: it's a dumb question," Lindsey groused as soon as Ethan had closed the door behind them. "The world's not ending. Not today, and not with a bang."

Ah yes: the hubris of youth. Ethan missed its luxury, missed the deep-seated conviction that permanent harm would always pass him by. "And you read that interesting piece of news in whose entrails?"

Lindsey rolled up his sleeves. His movements were choppy. "Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. At Wolfram & Hart we always had an apocalypse or two on the backburner. Not to spring it, but to keep the forces of Good busy and off our backs. The Senior Partners like the world just fine. Unless you and I get bumped off by a bunch of run-of-the-mill perps, we'll still be around tomorrow."

As someone who'd made it a calling to give life's inevitable glitches a bit of a leg-up, Ethan didn't share Lindsey's confidence in the Senior Partners. Loaded guns had a pesky tendency to go off when least expected. Why should apocalypses be any different? Besides, over the past few hours the feeling of dread in Ethan's gut had intensified, not lessened. Apparently, wholesale bad karma was still on the menu.

"You still owe me an answer. What would you do? Come on, Indulge me."

"I'd find a way to leave my mark on the world. I'd make sure my death counts. Go out with a bang, a big bang." The way Lindsey obstinately stuck out his chin while lowering his head reminded Ethan of a excitable steer sizing up a foppish torero. Lindsey's small, yet powerful frame was brimming with barely held-in-check passion: hostility, desire – it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Ethan grinned. He hadn't felt this randy in ages, but unlike Lindsey he shamelessly embraced his discomfort. It had to be worse for Lindsey, who was feeling the effects of the runes after all. Poor kid. Ethan frowned, startled by the unaccustomed flicker of empathy for his young apprentice. Chaos mages had little use for compassion. Ordinarily, Ethan reserved its atrophied remnants for himself. Maybe getting royally shafted by the Initiative had put a thing or two into perspective, or maybe Ethan was just turning into a boring old sap these days.

"I certainly wouldn't read the latest Grisham or screw around," Lindsey added, his voice dripping with contempt.

It was too good a cue to resist. "Oh, I'd most certainly screw around. I always planned on popping off in mid-fuck," Ethan said, even though Lindsey hadn't asked. "Now shall we?"

* * *

Rayne's sweeping, inviting gestured stopped at the table, but Lindsey's gaze automatically skidded further to land smack on the bed. A dry 'alone at last' popped into his head, complete with the English accent, even though Rayne was silent, and Lindsey knew he'd tumbled into the innuendo trap again.

Maybe he should just fuck the man, if only to get him out of his system.

Reluctantly, Lindsey focused his attention on the table. Rayne had prepared a spell while Lindsey had been tattooed. The silver bowl sat in the middle, surrounded by candles, incense sticks, and an unopened bottle of Evian.

Rayne handed Lindsey two sheets of hotel stationary that were covered in a flamboyant handwriting that was bordering on illegible. "Read this and memorize the section I marked there, you'll have to hum that chant in the back of your head while you gaze into the water."

Lindsey nodded, already deeply immersed in Rayne's description of the spell's ritual and the almost unpronounceable chant. He went through the whole procedure a second time, then lowered the papers, certain that he'd committed everything to memory. "Got it."

"Smart lad," Rayne said.

"What language is this?" Lindsey asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Just curious."

"Finnish, with a bit of Greek and Latin thrown in," the old sorcerer said. "Now, let's talk about Darla. Do you have a photo or some memento, a keepsake? Paves the way, especially for beginners."

After paying Carlos, Rayne had placed Lindsey's wallet on the TV. Lindsey reclaimed it and dug out a small photograph. Taken shortly before her second turning, it was far from flattering. Darla looked pale and haunted. But it was the only picture he had of her.

"Well then, are you quite sure you're up to this? Reach inside. Can you feel the power? Do you think it's enough? Let me warn you. If you run out of juice in mid-spell you could suffer a rather unpleasant whiplash. One should always keep a comfortable margin."

"I'm ready."

For the next ten minutes Lindsey followed Rayne's instructions to the letter, lighting the candles, pouring the water into the bowl and fanning sickly sweet incense smoke over the glittering surface. The spell played in the back of his head like a broken record. However, the water in the bowl stayed crystal clear.

"It's not working," Lindsey complained, peering into the clear, unresponsive liquid, willing it to turn into a canvas. He could feel the power inside his body slowly trickle away, a sure sign that the incantation he'd read was effective.

Suddenly an old black and white photograph appeared in Lindsey's field of vision. "Look for him, instead," Rayne said, "Look for Rupert Giles." The picture showed the spectacled man Lindsey had seen during the shared link. Rayne had referred to him before, but by the name of Ripper.

It was worth a try. Lindsey took the photograph and concentrated on the image and the name of the bearer, this time thinking of him as Rupert Giles. The surface misted up at once, faster than a mirror in a cloud of steam. Inside that slowly rotating maelstrom of smoke, colors blossomed. Two humanoid shapes appeared, a middle-aged man and a much younger woman.

The man was indeed Rupert Giles, although decades older than in the photograph. As for the female, … for a second Lindsey wasn't even sure the term 'female' applied, because black veins marred her pale skin like maggots. Lindsey had seen enough zombies to know that he wasn't watching a walking corpse, but with her dull black hair and her unnaturally black eyes she appeared less than human.

"Bugger," Rayne muttered beside him, breaking Lindsey's concentration.

Immediately, all color bled away. Only black and white lines and planes remained, frayed and smudged as in a charcoal drawing, and even those quickly sank beneath the smoky surface, but in a great feat of concentration Lindsey caught the image and dragged it back up, even imbued it with color again.

The man had fallen to his knees. With one swift movement the young woman pressed her hand on his chest, a cruel, gleeful expression on her face. Where her hand touched him, a bright glow erupted, bright enough to spill from the scrying bowl and bathe the ceiling of the hotel room in a queasy orange. It was like the link Lindsey had shared with Ethan. Only not.

Lindsey did not need to be told that she was rapidly draining her victim of his power, the way she must have drained Rack. The man – Giles – grimaced in pain, then collapsed. It was impossible to tell if he was dead or merely unconscious.

"No!" Rayne's strangled shout carried a multitude of emotions. Shock. Horror. Fury. Grief.

A blink of an eye later, Lindsey was gazing into a bowl that held nothing but water. The image was gone, this time for good. All the candles had snuffed. Breathing heavily from sheer exhaustion, Lindsey staggered back, away from the circle of acrid smoke that curled up from their cooling wicks.

"Bring it back," Rayne demanded.

"Do it yourself," Lindsey snapped, furious. The well inside him was dry, a gaping hollowness. He'd wasted the last few drops of power trying to spy on Rayne's fuck-buddy. "Sorry, but you can only get so far on a quick number in the shower," he added with dripping sarcasm and a jerking off motion. A small part of him knew that his anger was way out of proportion, but he'd left rational thinking several exits back.

Rayne stood frozen long enough for Lindsey to count to ten. Then, in a single outburst of fury he swept everything off the table. Bowl, candles, and incense holders scattered noisily to the floor. Dark stains blossomed on the carpet, ignored by both men.

There was a sweet satisfaction in watching another man snap, especially if that man delighted in making others crack under pressure. Lindsey didn't even try to hide his glee. "I bet a great sorcerer like you only has to snap his fingers to see or get whatever he wants."

Black eyes hardened; amiable lines that millions of broad smiles had dug into his features melted away. For a second Rayne's habitual mask of amused arrogance slipped, revealing the dangerous man W & H had considered recruiting.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of," Rayne said.

"Oh yeah?" Lindsey took a threatening step towards him. "What are you capable of? All you've given me so far are a few tricks and lots of talk."

"I've given you more power than you could have ever hoped for." Rayne stood his ground, but raised his hands.

To appease or to do magic? Lindsey didn't wait to find out. Two more steps brought him close enough to invade Rayne's personal space, close enough to grab the man's wrist with one hand, and his throat with the other. Rayne flinched and tried to knock his hands away. Lindsey was stronger. He manhandled the thin sorcerer backwards by the throat until Rayne's head and shoulders hit the wall and Lindsey had him trapped.

His body felt like it was on fire, unbearably hot. He'd fought it for hours, but now that his outburst had brought him close enough for their bodies to touch, Lindsey dropped all pretense. He was hard, achingly so, and he didn't care if Rayne knew it. In fact, he wanted the sorcerer to know. When he pressed his hardness against Rayne's thigh, he put his full weight behind it.

"You know what I think?" Lindsey snarled, as he pinned Rayne to the wall. "I think you couldn't stop me if your life depended on it. I think you're burnt out. Useless."

Rayne's smile was tight-lipped, and his gaze shifty, which made Lindsey think that he'd hit the nail on the head. For all his affectations and his condescending teacher crap, Rayne was little more than a third-rate charlatan when it came to real magic

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Rayne choked out, struggling against the hand that was crushing his wind-pipe. "I have more power in my little pinky than you'll ever have." His protest was accompanied by an eager wriggle, one that aligned his hardness with Lindsey's own. The friction sent a pounding wave of arousal through Lindsey's veins. Both men gasped.

Lindsey let go of Rayne's throat and grabbed a shock of hair instead. "Oh yeah? Then try to stop me."

"Stop you? Now, why would I do anything as daft as that?" Rayne breathed.

Suddenly, a pair of hands were adeptly unbuttoning Lindsey's pants, even though he couldn't recall letting go of Rayne's wrist. Unwilling to relinquish control, Lindsey gave Rayne's shoulder a rough push. "What do you want, Rayne?"

"You," Rayne said, "I want to fuck you."

"Wrong answer," Lindsey sneered, even though the words struck him like lightning.

"Wanted to fuck you from the moment I laid eyes on you," Rayne continued, as though he hadn't heard Lindsey. He'd managed to yank down the zipper, then his hand sought out bare skin, closing around Lindsey's rock-hard cock.

With Rayne's hand slowly stroking his cock, coherent speech had never seemed harder, but Lindsey stubbornly held on to his advantage. He was the one calling the shots now, time for Rayne to acknowledge this. He caught the other man's wrist, stopping the irresistible friction, then fixed Rayne with a hard stare. "Not gonna happen. Try again."

Rayne was breathing heavily. "Very well, then. In that case…" He met Lindsey's glare unflinchingly. For a fraction of a second, Lindsey thought he saw a spark of triumph light up Rayne's gaze. It had to be a mistake though, because a moment later the sorcerer admitted defeat. "I want you," Rayne said. "Inside me."

* * *

_If you strive for the moon, maybe you'll get over the fence.  
(James Wood, actor)_

* * *

 

Things turned into a blur then. Shoes were chucked into different corners of the room. Two pairs of hands urgently worked buttons and zippers to unceremoniously shed all layers of clothing and to peel off the cling film that covered Lindsey's tattoos.

Fully naked, they paused for a second or two, to catch their breath.

Rayne wore his nakedness with his usual unabashed confidence. The scars and tattoos gave him a mean appearance, reminiscent of a seasoned alley-cat. Not brutishly strong but resilient and ready to fight dirty. To Lindsey's surprise he turned out to be clean shaven, except for a small patch of well-trimmed curls, although on second thought, Lindsey had always pegged the sorcerer to be utterly vain. Rayne's dick was neither dauntingly long nor disproportionately thick, but it had a pronounced curve. Definitely bent, Lindsey noted wryly.

And then all coherent thought fled his brain, because skilled fingers dragged across his chest, teasing skin that was still slick from Rayne's ointment; skin that had been sensitized to an unbearable degree by needles and enchanted paint.

When Rayne's nails grazed nipples hard as nuggets, Lindsey bit his lip, stifling a desperate groan that built up deep inside him. He had to stop Rayne somehow, or this would be over too soon. He knocked Rayne's hands aside.

"Get on the bed," he ordered harshly.

Rayne obeyed without comment. He climbed on the bed and knelt, hands resting on his thighs, his curved cock bobbing slightly with each rapid heartbeat. 'Anything you want; any way you want it,' his posture seemed to say. Condescension had finally given way to wanton need.

A moment later, Lindsey knelt behind him, but apparently not fast enough for the sorcerer.

"Oh, for the love of Janus," Rayne said hoarsely, "Fuck me already."

Lindsey had vaguely contemplated getting Rayne to suck him off, had pictured himself fucking the sorcerer's mouth, wondering if Rayne would gag or just take it if Lindsey thrust deeply into his throat but not really caring either way; had fantasized about coming all over Rayne's face or in his mouth, about making him swallow, but he suddenly realized that he wanted to wring words and moans and groans from Rayne's lips.

One shove was enough to send Rayne down on all fours.

"Yeah, show me what you've got," Rayne spurred him on.

Lindsey was surprised – and inexplicably annoyed – to find Rayne already slick, but it certainly sped up matters. He spat into his hand and pumped his dick a few times, slicking himself with spit and pre-cum, and then, after only a minimum of preparation, he aligned his cock and pressed inside – none too gently. Rayne inhaled through gritted teeth, but then Lindsey felt him relax, surrendering to the relentless intrusion.

It was a ruthless fuck, fast and mean. One fist curled into the sorcerer's hair, pulling his head as far back as possible, Lindsey rode him like a cowboy breaking a bucking bronco: hard, forceful, and at a punishing pace. This was payback for all the veiled insults, the innuendos, the wicked smiles, and the hoops he'd made Lindsey jump through. Payback for the painful scrape of the tattoo needles and the gentle firmness of his touch. Payback for being old and broken, and still a condescending prick, but mostly for being one of the hottest fucks Lindsey had ever had.

It didn't take long for Rayne to push back on Lindsey's cock, as though trying to set the pace. Too good; too much; too soon. Lindsey gave him a hard shove, causing him to tumble forward. Rayne landed face down on the mattress, with Lindsey still holding on. Pinning the older man down with his full weight, Lindsey resumed thrusting, his fingers still entwined in Rayne's hair. Underneath him, Rayne was squirming, panting and mewling into the pillow, but not in pain. A glutton for punishment, he arched into every thrust, as far as his passive position would let him; still, he made no attempt to snake a hand underneath them to bring himself off. Instead, he was kneading the pillow, his knuckles white, grunting and choking out obscenities whenever Lindsey pulled him up by his hair to allow him to breathe. "Harder," Rayne croaked, and: "That all you've got?"

It was a heady experience. And it was over in record time.

With a strangled shout, Lindsey froze, hips jerking uncontrollably as he was racked by an embarrassingly sudden climax that scorned years of experience and control. As he shot load after load, spilling himself into the lean, scarred body of a man he didn't even like, Lindsey felt as though his body was vainly trying to wring itself dry, down to the very last shuddering drop.

When the tremors finally subsided, and the metaphorical dust settled, Lindsey found himself draped over a hard and uneven bed of rubble. Only it was warm and sweat-damp, and moving very subtly, rising and falling with every intake of breath: Ethan Rayne – an easy lay, but not particularly comfortable as a mattress. At some point or other Lindsey must have let go of the sorcerer's hair, because his fingers were now resting heavily on the nape of Rayne's neck, curled into an approximation of a caress.

Lindsey shifted slightly, but was seized by another shudder, one that told him he was still half-hard, and buried to the hilt inside the sorcerer's body. And, God, it was fucking magic. Literally. Not just because Rayne's body was warm and tight and it fit Lindsey's cock like a glove, although there was that as well, but because of the subtle, intoxicating hum of genuine power buzzing through his veins. Power.

"As much as I like a good warm hug," Rayne muttered into the pillow, "some of us like to save the insincere display of undying affection until after they've gotten off."

Embarrassment sharpened into annoyance. Lindsey pushed himself off, even though that meant pulling out, when all he truly wanted was to plow even deeper. He rolled over, sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Behind him, Rayne shifted and turned as well.

"Where do you think you're going?" the sorcerer asked, his tone friendly but stern. He gestured at his engorged cock that jutted eagerly from its nest of dark, neatly trimmed curls. Moisture gleamed at the tip. "I believe you're forgetting something."

"Feel free to beat off," Lindsey said, wrenching his eyes and thoughts away from the sight and standing up. "There's the remote."

"I always knew you for a selfish bastard," Rayne said mildly, his eyes glittering like polished onyx, "but I never pegged you for a coward. Until now."

That son-of-a-bitch! It was the oldest trick in the book. Older even than Rayne himself. Every lawyer knew that some words had power. Once uttered, they were prone to hang in the air like acrid smoke, clinging to everything they touched. They could be stricken from the record, but there was no erasing them from memory. It didn't matter that there were no witnesses. The fact that Lindsey had heard them was enough. There could be no backing down now.

"Nobody calls me that," Lindsey said, dangerously calm.

"Well now, what might you be afraid of? What's the worst that could happen? That I'll enthrall you with my magic wand?" Rayne chuckled, his voice sticky-sweet like a lure. "That you'll croon sweet I-love-yous into my ear? That you'll solemnly swear to be mine until the end of the world – which, incidentally, seems to be lurking just round the corner? Till death do us part, and beyond? Why thank you; I'm flattered."

"Yeah, that would be the day. You're not that good," Lindsey glared.

"Nobody is that good." Rayne graced him with an infuriating smile. "But if I strive for the moon, maybe I'll get a leg over."

Lindsey shook his head in exasperation. He'd had causal, meaningless sex before. No big deal, as natural as eating, drinking, or taking a leak. Lack of affection didn't bother him. On the contrary, it made things easier. Giving it up for Rayne should fall into the same category. Why not give his body what it was aching for? What was it about the old sorcerer that made Lindsey dig in his toes and refuse to budge? Was it a healthy sense of self-preservation or simply a stubborn refusal to give Rayne the satisfaction of the kill? Lindsey was long past the point where he could tell the difference.

"How do you want me?" he asked brazenly, telling himself that he hadn't quite given in yet, that he was still negotiating.

Rayne reached into the bedside drawer, and pulled out a red cord. "Gift-wrapped," he said.

"You've got to be kidding," Lindsey said, inwardly cursing his slightly flagging cock for visibly perking up at the sight.

"What? Don't you trust me?" Rayne asked mockingly, running the silken cord through his hand like a slippery snake. "Or maybe you'd prefer these?" This time he held up a pair of handcuffs, jingling them in front of Lindsey like a bunch of keys.

Lindsey inhaled sharply. "No," he said, in answer to both questions. But when he followed Rayne's gaze south to his cock, it stood to full attention and a tiny pearl of moisture grew at the tip.

"Good. Trust is overrated anyway. It has a pesky tendency of sucking all the fun out of this sort of thing," Rayne said cheerfully. "Come on, take your pick."

"First tell me why I should."

"Because I'm a randy old bugger who likes to play games?” Rayne suggested.

“Not good enough.”

“Because turnabout is fair?"

Lindsey snorted. "I don't play fair, and neither do you."

Rayne didn't even try to refute that statement. He merely played with the rope, letting it slide across his wrists. "I'll give you another reason: You'll look ever so very pretty, straining against this," he said mischievously.

Lindsey was mesmerized, unable to tear his gaze away. He could almost feel the rope brush against his wrists, but obstinacy won. "Still not good enough."

Rayne smiled a wolf's grin, and ran a single finger over the swirly tattoo on Lindsey's chest. "Let me put it to you this way," he stated. "If you don't, I won't fuck you till you scream."

Obstinacy flew out the window. Lindsey swallowed. "Say pretty please," he choked out, clinging to the illusion of control and free will like a drowning man.

* * *

 

"Pretty please," Ethan said promptly. He'd have stood on one leg, barked like a dog and sang the bloody star-spangled banner, if Lindsey had asked him to.

Ethan knew a lot about tying knots. A minute later Lindsey lay on the bed, put on display like a sacrifice about to be carved up. He lay on his back, spread-eagled like before, but this time his wrists were crossed and tied up with the silken cord. The cord was fastened to the headboard of the bed, pulling Lindsey's arms above his head. If he wanted to, Lindsey could admire himself in the giant mirror that hung above the bed.

Ethan chuckled and went into the bathroom to get warm wet washcloths and fresh towels. Humming a happy tune, he gently washed Lindsey's crotch, eliciting stifled almost-sighs of pleasure as well as an impatient glare. 'Get on with it,' that arctic stare seemed to say.

"If you want me inside you, you'll have to ask for it," Ethan said matter-of-factly, lifting the other man's balls with one hand while easing the warm wet cloth between Lindsey's thighs.

"What?"

"Tell me what you want," Ethan said. "C'mon. Say it."

"You're kidding."

"I'm afraid not," he said, grinning like a hungry shark.

Lindsey glowered at him. "Do it. Fuck me already," he ground out, after a moment of hesitation.

"No, no, no," Ethan shook his head. "Speak after me: ‘I want.’"

Lindsey tensed. "Quit your games, Rayne; just do it."

Ethan smiled and changed his position on the bed. But instead of slicking himself up and pushing inside, like Lindsey expected, he knelt beside him, dipped his fingers into the jar of ointment that still sat on the bedside table, and began to gently but firmly massage Lindsey's flesh. Only this time his oil-slick fingers strayed away from the tender tattoos, to tease and tweak Lindsey's nipples – hard nubs of want - and, oh, so pert and pretty and responsive. Lindsey gasped, open-mouthed and jerked his hips, thrusting into thin air, growing increasingly desperate for friction.

Ethan relished the luscious feel of Lindsey's body beneath his fingers, firm and strong flesh, healthy and eager, every ripple of muscle and tendon a silent testament to the effect his touch and skill were having.

"I believe you've been a bad boy," Ethan said softly, testing the waters, as he dragged his fingers south in swirling, unpredictable patterns.

A slightly dazed "Huh?" was his reward.

Too soon, Ethan decided. Not enough cracks in Lindsey's armor. Yet. He set the jar of ointment aside . "Turn over."

The rope gave Lindsey enough freedom to awkwardly change position. Ethan stuffed a pillow underneath his pelvis, then paused to admire the supple, inviting curve of the lad's firm little tush. It practically screamed 'spank me' but Ethan had no intention of finding out just how much leeway the chip gave him. Kneeling behind his young apprentice, he nudged his thighs apart and kneaded those deliciously pale and unmarred cheeks, spreading Lindsey wide open, fully aware of the conflicting mix of nervousness and impatience he was causing.

The effect - when instead of the expected tip of a hard cock - Ethan's tongue met with Lindsey's heated flesh - was rewarding. Caught completely off guard, Lindsey gasped and jerked in his bonds, but Ethan had expected this, and used his full strength to keep the straining body pinned and exposed. Ethan laughed inwardly, no stranger to the sensations he was causing. Right now, Lindsey was teetering between the impulse to frantically dry-hump the mattress, and the even stronger desire to keep still and let that wicked, inquisitive tongue do its thing.

Several licks later, Lindsey's gasps quickly melted into wanton moans; needy sounds that rose in pitch and urgency when the tip of Ethan's tongue probed his opening, pressing insistently against the tight, sensitive ring but not quite venturing inside. Too much and too little at the same time. It didn't take long; Lindsey was alternately cursing and sobbing.

Still trying to top from the bottom, Ethan noted, amused but not surprised. It would be interesting to see how long Lindsey could keep it up with Ethan's tongue deep inside his arse.

When Lindsey began to squirm and arch, seeking more friction for his trapped cock, Ethan flipped him over on his back and quickly grabbed the root of Lindsey's cock, forestalling a premature release.

For a second Lindsey teetered on the brink, but then he came down, still achingly hard and unsated. "Bastard," he choked out between clenched teeth, but Ethan noted a delectable expression of bliss in Lindsey's eyes, that came dangerously close to obliterating his customary glare.

Deeming his young apprentice well-prepared, Ethan pulled back and meticulously slicked himself up, before reaching down and carefully aligning his cock. Once in place, he began to subtly rock his hips – each shallow nudge almost insistent enough to breach. Almost. He smiled, watching burning need turn into utter desperation. "Come on, son. Say after me: 'I. Want. You.'" Ethan prompted softly, his face mere inches away from Lindsey's.

Muscles bulging, rippling underneath the black tattoos, Lindsey squirmed and writhed in his bonds, bucking and arching like a tame horse remembering the days when it was still unbroken. He shook his head, but the words broke free anyway: "I want."

"You," Ethan ground out.

Blue eyes blazed with fury and want. "You," Lindsey repeated and he did not look away.

"Inside me."

Lindsey did not answer. Pride and lust were clearly fighting for the lead.

Ethan's hand was still slick with lube. He wiped his hand on the sheet, then clasped the lad's throat – not tight enough to rob him of air, but firmly nonetheless. He watched the struggle play out on Lindsey's face with a mixture of glee and anxiety. Janus be thanked; lust won.

"Inside me," Lindsey rasped, bucking against him again, not to throw him off, but to impale himself, to exert that extra bit of pressure against Ethan's cock that meant the difference between in and out. Every one of his movements sent white-hot currents of desire through Ethan's body. But that was nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of reprieve he felt.

"Again," Ethan said, still evading Lindsey's demand.

"I want. You. Inside me." Lindsey repeated breathlessly.

With a sigh of intense relief, Ethan finally pressed inside, drinking in the way Lindsey's eyes widened and darkened. He paused briefly, to give Lindsey a moment to get used to his girth, but Lindsey wasn't having any of it, he canted and twisted his hips and strained upwards, practically screwing himself on Ethan's cock. Ethan felt his control slipping and he had to close his eyes and block out the wanton sight before him, lest he should spend himself too soon.

"Good boy," he said gently, when some semblance of control had been restored to him. He smiled his most benevolent smile. Lindsey's answer was a strangled gasp.

Ethan loosened his grip around Lindsey's throat to bury his fingers in his stubborn hair– with sufficient force to make his control felt, while still bordering on a caress. "Good boy," he repeated, relishing the surge of arousal the two words caused in the beautiful body he was fucking.

Every gasp he wrenched from Lindsey's mouth brought him closer to his own release. Ethan's ass was sore, but the feeling only added to his pleasure. For a fleeting moment, he wished Ripper were here to complete the sandwich like he used to, riding Ethan hard and practically ramming him into the body underneath him, as though Ethan's cock was an extension of his own.

Ethan shook his head, trying to push the memory away, but his body reacted in its own way, thrusting deeper and harder into Lindsey's tight channel. "Perfect," Ethan managed to choke out. And: "Come on, son, lift your legs, yeah, that's it."

Lindsey obeyed with a whimper.

"Pretty boy," Ethan murmured, hooking Lindsey's feet over his shoulders and bending him further until Lindsey's knees touched his chest. "So apt, and so pretty."

It was a brilliant shag. Ethan knew without doubt that Janus was watching, was inside him, feeling what he was feeling, fucking Lindsey in tandem with him. Ethan found his rhythm and aim, and Lindsey began to babble as the last vestiges of pride and rage were fucked out of him. It was like a knot coming undone. The first time he called Ethan "Daddy," Lindsey looked shocked, desperate to stuff the word right back where it belonged, into some dark, hidden recess of his mind, from whence it had come. Ethan just patted his cheek, said, "I got you, son, daddy's got you," and fucked him harder, hitting the right spot with every thrust, wringing more exclamations and babble out of the writhing man, calling him 'son' and 'my dear boy'

Lindsey came, without any stimulation to his own prick, from Ethan's cock – and words – alone. And maybe from Ethan's firm hand in his hair and the brush of his thumb that gently smoothed the ever-present frown off his brow.

Ethan wasn't far behind. As he felt the hard yet pliant body underneath him convulse and shudder in the throes of his release, he reached for the rope that held Lindsey's wrists. One pull and it came off, freeing the other man's arms.

Ethan thrust harder, faster, deeper, as though trying to meld with the slick, sweat-damp body underneath him, his heart hammering madly in his chest. He couldn't have held back now even if the hotel had caught fire or if he'd felt the universe crumble to dust around him. "Inside you," he murmured and caught Lindsey's open mouth with his, greedily lapping up his lover's moans and whimpers. Moments later he climaxed as well, spilling himself deeply into Lindsey's body. His last stray thought was that this was one glorious fuck, one of the best ever, and Ethan had a lot of good ones to compare it to, and there was a yanking sensation, a mixture of vertigo and rushing exhilaration usually associated with roller coasters, and Ethan was…

* * *

… twitching and convulsing around the hard cock that kept plowing inside him and he was looking up at a lean, scarred body that was still rocking and thrusting and trembling in the throes of an intense orgasm: Ethan Rayne looked up at Ethan Rayne.

Ethan did not hesitate. Even though his stolen body was still thrumming with pleasure he balled his new hand to a fist and struck. He had no qualms hitting someone who wore his face. The point was to knock Lindsey-in-Ethan's-body out cold before he had a chance to catch on. Ethan's new arm moved as planned, but his new fingers had not yet curled into a fist by the time they connected with the other man's chin. Lindsey wasn't knocked out; instead he blinked once in confusion, before realization struck, faster than Ethan had thought possible. Features that looked slightly different than what Ethan was used to from the mirror, creased first into anger, then seething hatred: hands balled into fists.

Bugger! Ethan flexed his aching fingers. They resisted him, moving more slowly, as though stuck in glue. It seemed like Lindsey's transplanted hand objected to the change of tenants.

The two men stared at each other. Ironically, their bodies were still joined.

"Surprise," Ethan said, and smiled.

* * *


	11. Bound

# Part 11 – Bound

 _"What's it going to be then, eh?"_  
(Anthony Burgess – A Clockwork Orange)

* * *

With the fighting instinct of an unscrupulous alley-cat, Ethan grabbed Lindsey's shoulder with one hand, and reached down between his legs with the other, hoping to both gain the leverage to hurl him off and inflict enough pain to take him out of play – at least temporarily. He didn't quite make it, because a well-aimed punch smashed against his chin, briefly causing him to see stars. Luckily it didn't knock him out.

Lindsey wasn't quite so lucky. With a loud yelp he jerked backwards, clutching his head. Losing his balance, he toppled off the bed and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

With the weight on his hips gone, Ethan swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He felt strong and healthy. Young. A few feet away, his old body was lying face down on the floor, convulsing in pain, making pitiful mewling sounds.

"Welcome to my migraine," Ethan said amiably, crouching down beside Lindsey to give him an almost affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Hope you don't think this is personal."

For the first time in years he got a good look at his own body from the outside. Thinner, and frailer than it used to be; not quite broken but definitely scarred. Threadbare. Almost used up.

A hot shudder coursed through him. Afterglow. Ethan grinned. Initiative or no, he sure hadn't lost his touch. His new body was perfect; well-trained, too. Blood pressure and heart beat were already returning to normal. He ran his hands over his new body, relishing its firmness and vigor, even the soreness caused by the tattoos. It felt even better from the inside.

"Well, we better tie you up before you hurt yourself further. Now where's that rope?" Ethan searched the bed.

He spun around when he heard sounds of hurried crawling behind him. Lindsey was making a dash for Ethan's open duffel bag on the floor right next to his bedside table. His hand darted inside and came out with the .38 Police Special Ethan had appropriated from his previous landlord.

Lindsey whirled around, gun in hand, but lost his balance and ended up sitting on the floor, half slumped against the drawer. His face looked grey and waxen, and his nose was bleeding. The sweat on his brow made him look feverish, like a junkie on withdrawal. Panting, he lifted his arm, leveling the gun at Ethan, stopping him in his tracks. The hand that held the heavy weapon was shaking.

"You try to pull that trigger, and the chip will fry your brain." Ethan said hurriedly, raising his hands and taking a cautious step backwards. "And by that I mean 'kill you'."

"But you die as well," Lindsey choked out, and added after frowning at his shaking hand. "Maybe."

Ethan had grown accustomed to the lingering pain in his joints, the sense of his skin being one size too small, and the discomfort that age and past injuries were inflicting. This had to be the first time Lindsey got a taste of what it meant to be old.

"Maybe," Ethan agreed and waited.

"What chip?" came the expected question.

"A rather nefarious piece of technology a few government-owned white-coats saw fit to shove into my brain. For purely scientific reasons, of course. Turned me into a Clockwork Mage. No more magic. No violence either; although that's more of a side effect." Five flippant sentences summed up two years of hell on earth. There was no point in detailing the things that had been done to him, so he didn't even try. Sometimes, Ethan decided, words were just inadequate.

Understanding dawned in the other man's face. "No magic? Then how did you--?"

"The switch? I didn't. You did. Remember? 'Inside me'? Also, I took the liberty of adding a few words of my own to the scrying spell you performed." A smug smile tugged at his lips, and Ethan allowed it to hatch into a full-fledged grin. He'd had two years to come up with ways of outsmarting that abomination in his head. Switching bodies was just one of them, but by far the neatest.

"As I said: nothing personal. You're a smart lad. I enjoyed being your teacher. But I have a considerable list of enemies and I'd rather face them with all my faculties intact," Ethan said cheerfully. "You'd have done the same, if things were reversed."

"I'm not gonna let you walk out, wearing my body." Lindsey seethed. He was trembling with pain and rage. "I'll put a bullet in your head first, even if it kills me."

Ethan made no move to depart. He sat down on the bed, smiling, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. He reached inside his new body, opening himself up… there it was, like a glistening well, dark but shiny: power. Less than he was accustomed to, but enough for a man of his skills and training, thanks to the tattoos.

"You can certainly try," Ethan said evenly. "But I wouldn't count on shooting me with my own gun. It's loaded with blanks."

It was a blatant lie; one that Lindsey didn't fall for, not even for a second, but his gaze automatically flickered to the chambers of the Colt in his hand and that was enough. A blink of an eye later, the heavy Colt flew into Ethan's hand. "I've been floating pencils long before you were born, son," Ethan said, aiming his gun at his apprentice-turned-enemy.

"Don't call me that!" Lindsey snarled, with more vehemence than ever before.

"What? Oh you mean 'son'? You liked it well enough, boy, when I was fucking you," Ethan said, faking surprise, then tossed back his head. "'Oh yes, daddy, yes, hold me,'" he crooned in Lindsey's voice, and in an eerily convincing imitation of ecstasy. Ethan chuckled. "What's the matter, Lindsey, never got your chance to make daddy proud?"

Even as the words left his mouth, Ethan realized that he'd gone too far. Lindsey paled and his lips thinned. Ethan half expected him to charge with his bare hands, but the lad was still a lawyer at heart, trained to think on his feet and wait for an opening before attacking. One could literally watch white-hot fury get honed into slow-burning, deep-seated hatred. One could see it in his eyes, in the way he was staring at the gun in Ethan's hand.

"My, my," Ethan said, hiding his unease, "if looks could maim, flay and eviscerate I'd be dead meat and Zelda would have to redecorate her honeymoon suite."

"You better kill me. Or, believe me, I'll find you and then I will kill you."

"Oh, I believe you." Ethan regarded him. "Guess that means I'll really have to kill you first. What was it Machiavelli said? 'If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared?' Ah yes, nothing beats a solid humanist edu—"

* * *

Suddenly Rayne tensed, eyes widening into a distant stare. "Bollocks," he whispered. Chip or no, Lindsey decided this was his chance and went for the gun, as fast as his feet would carry him. Not fast enough.

"Vincire!" Green wisps of energy shot from the sorcerer's fingertips and wrapped themselves around Lindsey, pinning his arms against his body. His feet lost touch with the floor and he suddenly found himself hovering a foot above the ground.

Rayne barely looked at him. His half-raised palm still vaguely facing Lindsey, he stared into empty space, captivated by distant events. "You stupid little girl," the sorcerer muttered. "What do you think you're doing?"

Being ignored was one of the things Lindsey hated most, but maybe he could use it to his advantage? He struggled and squirmed, but the green energy strait-jacket held – unyielding like steel, only squishier. After a few minutes Lindsey gave up and hung there, limply, in Rayne's magical binding field, trying to catch his breath. With nothing to do but watch the fucking bastard who was wearing his skin stare into empty space.

Finally, with a sigh, Rayne lowered his arm. "You want to see me dead? It could happen sooner than you think," he said, disappearing inside the bathroom. "Remember the black-eyed girl we saw earlier in the scrying bowl?" Rayne's raised voice traveled through the open door, only slightly obscured by sounds of running water. "Right now she's doing something exceedingly foolish. I don't know if you ever heard of Proserpexa. A powerful she-demon of annihilation, some say of chaos, but—" the sorcerer stopped himself with an apologetic chuckle. "My apologies. It's an old academic debate," he said, leaving the bathroom with a handful of toilet articles.

Rayne had put on a white hotel bathrobe, but hadn't bothered tying the belt. Now he picked up his duffle bag and started to pack, briskly folding a few of his shirts and a pair of slacks, talking to Lindsey over his shoulder. His tone could almost be described as chatty. "Where was I? Ah yes, Proserpexa. Black-eyed girl just raised her effigy and is using it to burn this world to a crisp, even as we speak. Kind of puts things into perspective, don't you think?"

It did, although Lindsey would sooner bite off his tongue than admit it.

The conversation they'd had earlier, about what they'd do should the world ever come to an end, still echoed in Lindsey's mind. He remembered big-mouthing about leaving his mark, about going out with a bang. And here he was, about to get roasted in some freak, unscheduled apocalypse. Naked and cold, trapped in a magical energy field and a body that itched and pinched like a badly tailored suit. His ass was sore, and moisture was slowly trickling down his thigh. His own come. Lindsey grimaced, well aware of the inherent absurdity of his predicament.

"That's it? We're going to get killed by some far-off girl who likes to play with matches?" Lindsey asked, outraged.

"So it would seem. Oh, a thousand things might still happen. Your precious Senior Partners might intervene, or the Slayer. But if things stay the way they are now, then you and I, my friend, are toast." Rayne shrugged. "Oh well, at least now I know what that queasy feeling in my gut was all about."

Barely sparing his scowling prisoner a glance, he laid another outfit out on the bed, then reached under the pillow, retrieving his gold medal. With a reverence Lindsey hadn't thought him capable of, Rayne touched the coin to his lips, then slipped it into its leather pouch. He placed gun and pouch next to the clothes on the bed, then turned around, giving the room one last sweeping scrutiny before stepping in front of Lindsey.

There was nothing awkward in his movements. He'd slipped into Lindsey's skin as if into a cashmere sweater. Even in his stolen flesh Rayne's gait retained its feline confidence.

"How about another deal?" Lindsey tried to negotiate. "I still have connections, friends in the right places. I make a few phone-calls and the Senior Partners will take care of the girl."

"Tempting. But I'm afraid I trust neither you, nor your ex-firm."

"What're you gonna do instead? Screw around while you're waiting for the apocalypse?"

"Asking for an encore, are we?"

Blue eyes that were both familiar and utterly alien held Lindsey's gaze. Rayne slowly raised his hand. Lindsey jerked back, or at least tried.

A second later, Lindsey felt a gentle, lingering touch on his shoulder that caused his skin to erupt into goose-flesh. It took him a full two seconds to realize that Rayne was tracing the ugly, crescent-shaped scar on Lindsey's shoulder, lightly dragging the tip of his finger over badly knitted skin.

"The vampire who did this was so starved, she never let go, even as the implant fried her brain," The sorcerer said wistfully. "They had to smash her jaw to pry her loose. Took her six months to regain some semblance of intelligence."

"Ooh, bedtime stories." Lindsey spat. "Guess you had to be there."

Rayne just smiled, but not without strain. The fingertip wandered lower, across Lindsey's chest, never losing touch with his skin, playfully scratched a hardening nipple and came to rest on a thin white scar a mere inch below the right pectoral. "Ripper," Rayne said, fondness in his voice. "A watcher lapping up another man's blood. He called it an experiment."

Lindsey tried to tell himself that the racing of his heart and the slow hardening of his cock had nothing to do with him. The body he was trapped in had its own set of hard-wired reactions; that was all.

'I even fucked myself a couple of times,' the memory of Rayne's words echoed inside Lindsey's head, suddenly making a chilling kind of sense. He squirmed, trying to bend away and out of reach, but the energy field was relentless. And when he tried to kick, a casual gesture from the sorcerer put his legs into stasis as well.

"Don't you think you're taking narcissism a bit too far?" Lindsey gasped.

"Beats self-loathing any day," Rayne said, unfazed. "Now hold still. Let's not waste any more time."

"We had a deal," Lindsey managed to choke out before the energy field expanded, encasing him from head to toe in a green-glowing energy version of plaster-of-Paris, and rendering him completely and utterly immobile. He couldn't move a finger, let alone talk. But he could still see and hear. And feel.

"Indeed we did." Something in the sorcerer's face softened. He rested his hand against Lindsey's cheek, lightly brushing his thumb over his lower lip. Rayne's touch was warm and dry. Gentle. And in spite of everything that had happened, it sent a tingle of want to Lindsey's groin.

"Come now; you're a lawyer. You must have read Machiavelli, and what he says about promises and deals. 'The promise given was a necessity of the past: the word broken is a necessity of the present.' Admit it, my friend; you never intended to keep your promise to me."

Lindsey's only reply was a sullen glare.

Rayne sighed, and stepped behind him, leaving Lindsey's line of sight.

"I'm afraid this will hurt quite a bit," Rayne whispered into his ear, resting one hand on the nape of his neck. Lindsey felt his warm breath on his skin and tensed.

'Quite a bit' was a colossal understatement. Pain blossomed inside Lindsey's head, searing, gut-churning pain, as though a thin white-hot rod were slowly pushed into his skull. Lindsey bucked and screamed, or at least he would have, but the energy field that held him captive also immobilized his vocal chords. Pinpoint agony exploded into a shockwave of heat and the world rapidly faded to black.

* * *

 

When the body before him had gone limp, Ethan plunged his fingers deeply inside the dark-haired skull once more. His hand slid underneath skin and bone and through firm, slightly rubbery brain matter, this time not just to locate and knock out the tiny energy cell but to deftly sever every single connecting wire. Only then did his immaterial fingers close around the chip. Willing it to lose some of its atomic cohesion, Ethan carefully eased it out, past the dendritic spider web of wires and sensors that had hooked the contraption up with his thalamus.

With a wet squishy sound that smacked of slimy tentacles or eviscerated bodies, Ethan pulled out his hand. The skull before him was whole, showing neither a gaping hole, nor traces of blood, and Ethan knew the brain tissue underneath to be undamaged. He stared at the tiny microchip that lay in his palm, utter loathing burning like acid in his mouth.

It would have been a hell of a lot smarter to walk out and leave his young apprentice chipped and helpless. Or dead.

Oh well.

"I never liked Machiavelli anyway," Ethan muttered, crushing the nasty little bugger in his fist and dropping it to the floor.

* * *

_Mirrors on the ceiling_  
Pink champagne on ice  
And she said  
We are all just prisoners here  
Of our own device  
(Hotel California – Eagles)

 

When Lindsey came to he was still trapped, hovering in the middle of the room. His head hurt like hell, but since he hadn't expected to live at all, he wasn't going to complain. He strained against the energy field and discovered that only a modicum of movement had been restored to him. He could wriggle his fingers and toes and twist his neck. That was all.

Rayne sat at the table, bathing in blindingly bright morning sunlight that fell through the open balcony door, scribbling something down. He was still wearing his bathrobe and nothing else.

"Still here," Lindsey stated.

With a flourish, Rayne finished whatever he was writing and put down his pen, before standing up, and slowly sauntering towards him. "You didn't think I'd leave without kissing you goodbye," he said, smiling.

"You sick bastard," Lindsey exploded.

"Have you ever wondered what your own mouth feels like? What others feel when they kiss you? When they push their tongue into your pretty mouth?" Rayne was now close enough for their bodies to touch. Smirking, he ran one hand through his prisoner's hair, and cupped his ass with the other. "Come on, let me show you," he murmured, then leaned forward to press his slightly parted lips on Lindsey's stubbornly closed mouth.

It didn't matter whose body Rayne wore; he knew how to push every one of Lindsey's buttons. Lindsey's resolve to resist collapsed like a house of cards in two seconds flat. His involuntary gasp gave Rayne's probing tongue the opening it needed and it darted inside, hot and wet, and knowing.

Their tongues and breaths mingled in a fierce drawn-out kiss that was fuelled as much by anger and impending death as by genuine lust. It looked and felt as though Lindsey was kissing himself, but he never forgot that it was Rayne behind the steering wheel. The sorcerer moaned into his mouth like a connoisseur savoring a particularly fine wine, stroking Lindsey's hair, and slowly grinding his hard-on against Lindsey's hip, and Lindsey's body responded with humiliating alacrity. He barely noticed it when his feet landed on the floor; he merely used his new-won leverage to press harder against the other man. "Hate you," he groaned, biting Rayne's lips. "Gonna kill you for this."

"I know," Rayne replied, taking Lindsey's head between both hands. "Reversum," he sighed – into Lindsey's open mouth.

It was like a parachute jump. One second you were a bundle of nerves and anticipation, the next instant you were barreling through the air so fast your own voice couldn't keep up with you, falling like a stone, faster and faster, drunk with speed and the wind whipping your face and bringing tears to your eyes, falling, falling, until the parachute opened with a yank, breaking your fall, heart still beating madly inside your chest when the ground suddenly leaped at you and bang, you'd arrived…

* * *

"Home, sweet home," Ethan sing-songed cheerfully, as he took a hurried step backwards, out of the other man's reach.

Lindsey was swaying on his feet, disoriented by the transition. He stared at his hands, blinking incredulously. They were his own again and free of restraints. It was obvious from the look on his face that he expected his freedom to come with a catch.

"Plenty of other bodies out there," Ethan said, answering the unspoken question in Lindsey's gaze. "Without a price on their heads. Bodies that don't need tattoos to hold magical power."

Lindsey nodded slowly, but his eyes were smoldering with suspicion and hatred.

Had Ethan expected the return of his body to somehow lessen the murderous fury in Lindsey's eyes? Not for a second. Only time had the power to do that.

Ethan flexed his arms and shoulders, as though shrugging back into his own body, a body that was still naked and sprouting an erection – Lindsey's erection, if one were inclined to be nitpicky.

No longer violated by that accursed chip, it wasn't such a bad body to live in.

He walked over to the bed and started to get dressed, keeping a wary eye on his seething apprentice, and the gun close at hand. "You'll be happy to hear that the apocalypse has been averted." Ethan pulled up his trousers and unselfconsciously tucked his hard-on away. "I wish I could say in all honesty that I had something to do with it, but the truth is, black-eyed girl finally came to her senses. No sign of the Senior Partners, by the way."

Lindsey silently moved to the chair to pick up his own pants, mirroring Ethan's actions, but with more anger behind every movement.

Ethan watched him with more than a twinge of regret. If he'd known that the impending doom would take care of itself, he'd have taken things more slowly. Ethan was tired of being alone.

Oh well, it would never have worked anyway. They weren't exactly the trusting kind. Ethan stifled a sigh and picked up his bag. Time to split. "I wrote down the address of an old acquaintance of mine. He'll fix you up with anti-detection runes and other gadgets, as long as you don't mind going all the way to Nepal. Tell him I sent you and he'll do it for free. He owes me. As for the books and the rest of my stuff here, feel free to take whatever you want."

"All I want," Lindsey said hoarsely, "is to see you dead."

"Come now, I may have tampered with your nuts and bolts, son, but I never made you do or say anything that wasn't already inside you. Like it or not, every man has two faces, even you and I."

Lindsey stubbornly shook his head.

Ethan sighed. One door opened and another one closed. There was no point in lingering and dwelling on could-have-beens.

As he walked out, a sense of deliverance suddenly bubbled inside him like champagne, and he found himself smiling uncontrollably. Free at last. He had to admit that this had been as much about winning as it had been about breaking free; it proved that two years of imprisonment hadn't broken him. Oh yes; he was still Ethan Rayne, chaos' degenerate son. And if he'd lost his palate for outright cruelty, well, why not?

After all, the only thing that Janus truly abhorred was the absence of change.

* * *


	12. Epilogue: Round

# Epilogue - Round

_If we played even,_  
I'd be your queen.  
But someone was cheatin'.  
And it wasn't me.  
I've laid it on the table,  
You had something back.  
If love is Aces,  
Give me the Jack.  
(If Love is a Red Dress – Maria McKee) 

* * *

**deal** , n.  
An agreement, especially one that is mutually beneficent.

* * *

Killed. Not by Angel but by one of his pathetic flunkies. Not by Angel.

Lindsey lay slumped on the ground, a burning pain in his chest where Lorne's bullets had smashed through bone and tissue. He couldn't move; not his limbs, not his eyes. He couldn't even breathe. Angel's green executioner stood before him. Lindsey couldn't see Lorne's face. He could only see the legs of his pants and the hem of his ugly brown leather coat. The gun clattered to the floor. Then the legs turned to depart.

So. This was what death felt like. Lindsey tried to move. He was trapped inside his prone, unresponsive body. It looked like Wolfram & Hart's after-death clause was still operative. A mixed blessing, but anything that kept him away from the gaping hole that he could sense opening just outside his limited field of vision, had to be a good thing.

In front of him a grey swirl turned into a pair of black-clad legs wearing expensive leather shoes. For one insane moment Lindsey thought they were Angel's, that Angel had come to make sure he was dead, or maybe to stop Lorne. It would have been too late, of course, but hey, it was the thought that counted.

"Hey there, son," Rayne's voice mocked him. "Need a hand?"

Rayne. Come to gloat. 'Fuck you!' Lindsey would have snarled at his former teacher, but death kind of cramped his range of expression.

"Quite a ruckus you fellows caused here. Taking out some of the players instead of the pieces… The upcoming power struggles will be quite something to behold."

Rayne's feet approached him. Hands touched Lindsey's shoulders and propped him up, then arranged his limp head so he could stare unblinkingly at the jagged, tentacled funnel that resembled the swirling eye of a slate gray tornado. Lindsey thought he could hear screaming and wailing from out of the funnel. So this was what the gates of hell looked like.

One of the smoky tendrils grew, slowly wafting and snaking towards Lindsey's prone ankle. If that was supposed to scare him, it was working. Lindsey had never been a coward. There had been times when he would have welcomed death, and other times where he simply hadn't cared, but going to hell? Now? He would squirm away – if only he could.

You dealt with the wrong people and it was eternal flames after. A deal was a deal. Nobody knew that better than Lindsey. No fine print; no surprise witnesses; no fixing the jury; no last appeals.

Rayne crouched down in front of Lindsey, but at a respectful distance to the swirling not-so pearly gate. He'd grown a well-groomed beard that gave him an air half distinguished and half sardonic.

For at least ten seconds the sorcerer gazed into the funnel before facing Lindsey.

"Pretty, isn't it?" he said without mirth, then dug into his coat pocket. A moment later, a gleaming gold coin was held in front of Lindsey's eyes. For the first time he got a good look at it. It showed a man's face - young, happy. Rayne turned it over and the face was old, bearded and stern. Janus: Rayne's god. "Life, death, dominance, service, peace, war, pain, lust, hate, love. Different sides of the same coin." Rayne gave the coin a spin. "What goes up, must come down. Every ending is a new beginning. Only change is eternal. Fancy another deal?"

There was an unexpected note of pleading in the sorcerer's voice.

How did one say "Anything you want" when one was dead? Apparently one didn't have to, because the gold coin spun into the air like a golden hummingbird, rose, hovered for the blink of an eye, then came down and landed on the sorcerer's palm. He glanced at it, then smiled. "Good boy."

Rayne reached out and touched Lindsey's chest. A searing pain stabbed through Lindsey's heart and he gasped, greedily drawing fresh air into dying lungs. Behind Rayne the hellish swirl was already closing: shrinking and withdrawing like a disappointed moray retreating into its hole. Hell still had teeth, but today hell went hungry.

Heart. Beating. Air. Breathing. Alive!

Lindsey patted his chest. The bullet holes were gone; so was the pain. His flesh was fully mended. Only the shirt was still ruined, blood-stained evidence of his execution.

Rayne was watching him, his saturnine face inscrutable, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat; yet something about him belied the casual posture, maybe the tension in his neck.

Rayne held out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Lindsey took it, allowing the sorcerer to pull him to his feet. Before letting go, Rayne slipped a hard, cold object between Lindsey's fingers.

"Say hello to Janus," Rayne said softly.

Lindsey looked up from the gold coin in his palm to meet the sorcerer's obsidian gaze. Maybe it was Lindsey's imagination, but Rayne's smile seemed uncertain, as though he were holding his breath.

A deal was a deal. Never breaking eye-contact, Lindsey brought the coin to his lips. Allowing a smile to break through, he greeted the one person who'd ever come back for him.

"Hello, Ethan."

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to: Sangpassionne, Makd, Patintexas, Oni, HarmonyfB, Mike, Spankys, Tigs (Sarah), Miggy (Kristen/Idaho), sitebilder, Jenny-O, and Kalima.


End file.
